The Case of the Two Survivors
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Twelve names on a list. Ten of the named men dead. Two names remain, one of them belonging to the elder brother of the foremost private consulting detective in London. Mycroft next? Not if Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson have any say in the matter! COMPLETE
1. Chapter One

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter One**

It is true to say that some years stand out in one's memory as being more remarkable than others. After the busy year of 1889, my recollection of that which followed is, by contrast, of a rather slower period, when my contact with Mr Sherlock Holmes was limited to some extent by the demands of matrimony and a burgeoning private practice.

If that year is to carry any special distinction, it must therefore be for those few cases, three of which I retain record, in which we pursued the investigations together as was our practice of old. Of the curious business of the Red-Headed League and the particular predicament of Miss Violet Hunter and her experience at the house known as The Copper Beeches have the public already been informed as to details.

But of the third of those cases, and the one that even now, with the distance of many years, conjures that year of 1890 so vividly in my mind is that which again brought us into contact with Holmes's elder brother, not, as before, on account of some business brought to his door, but on a matter that touched rather closer to home.

It happened that on the Saturday in question in late June, an early call had taken me past my former rooms at Baker Street. With my patient at ease, I was seized by the greatest desire to call upon my old friend.

The hour was late enough for Holmes to have risen but not gone beyond a decent hour for breakfast. Faced with returning home for the dubious offerings being served by the genial if incompetent woman standing in for our housekeeper whilst she was away visiting an ailing relative, I decided to throw myself on Mrs Hudson's mercies and trusted to her admirable skill of being to produce an edible meal for a hungry visitor at short notice.

As it happened, my arrival was timely. Holmes was indeed up, but that seemed to be the extent of his activity for the day. Clad still in dressing gown, though shaved and groomed, he appeared listless and ill at ease. This unhappy state I knew from long experience was the result of too many hours spent escaping the company of his own thoughts with the aid of artificial stimulants.

I fancy that he brightened a little when I he saw me, though not enough to rouse himself from his chair. He regarded me with half-closed eyes whilst puffing at his long cherry-wood pipe, itself a warning that all was not well with him. I did not have far to look for the signs of his recent preoccupations and I fancy that the onset of a frown soon settled upon my face.

"Doctor, it is considered unforgivably bad manners to harangue the host when one has come begging for breakfast," Holmes drawled, pre-empting, as was his wont, my very thoughts before I had a chance to put them into words.

"I have not come begging," I said in protest. "I was passing and thought to see how you were faring."

He waved a dismissive hand. "And now you have seen for yourself, you wear your disapproval for my amusements of late all too evidently."

"You know my opinion on the subject."

"Which you have been kind enough to share with me on occasions too numerous to mention. So let us omit that tiresome and unnecessary re-treading of old ground, which we both find such a chore, and instead concentrate on the reason for your presence here this morning. We will accept without question your burning desire to revisit your bachelor haunts and the fellowship of your freer days, and come to the secondary motive for your bursting in upon me this fine morning."

"Very well," I conceded, smiling. "How did you know?"

He grinned behind his pipe. "You have that hungry look about you, Watson. The moment you entered, your eyes fell not on me, but on the table. Your expression lit up considerably when you observed that Mrs Hudson had yet to lay the breakfast things. I do declare that had you been cast into an _oubliette_ in days of yore, your gaolers would not have had long to wait before you were ready to pour out every one of your secrets in return for a half-decent meal. Your housekeeper _is_ away, I take it?"

"Yes, Mrs Jessop is away visiting her relations."

"Ah. Then you have fallen foul of that most lamentable of situations, whereupon you find yourself reliant on the skills of a temporary cook."

"I do indeed. Her greens are soggy and her Yorkshire puddings leave much to be desired. As for her gravy, well, the least said about that, the better in my opinion."

"Most unfortunate," said Holmes, his tone rather more amused than sympathetic. "And will the redoubtable Mrs Jessop be remaining in your employ when you complete your move?"

I felt a certain slackness take hold of my jaw. "How the devil did you know that?"

He gestured with the stem of his pipe to my left coat pocket and the newspaper that I placed there earlier. "The property page of the_ Daily Telegraph_, my dear fellow, and the ink smudges I see upon your fingers are quite conclusive. A man does not generally expend such care in reading the property advertisements unless he is seeking alternative accommodation. Paddington does not please you?"

"Mary suggested that Kensington might prove more fruitful."

"You are not of the same mind."

"Holmes," said I with a sigh in acknowledgement of his perspicacity.

"It is no great feat of deduction, Watson. You said that this planned move was the suggestion of your wife, a very interesting choice of words. Had it been your ambition or a joint decision, you would have said so. In addition, you have mentioned before that you have a healthy quota of patients." He smiled. "If healthy is the right word."

I chuckled. "Well, it is perfectly simple when you explain it."

He waved my remark aside. "It is a mere trifle, Watson, a parlour trick to amuse the unobservant and dull-witted."

I knew him well enough not to be offended by his comment, biting as it was, knowing that it sprang from a need for conflict to break the monotony of what would otherwise prove to be another tedious day. As he had done before, I now chose to ignore this slight and moved instead to strike at the heart of the matter.

"I take it you have no cases at present, Holmes?"

"An excellent observation," said he, dryly.

I gave him a tolerant look of mild reproof and he sighed.

"Forgive me, my dear fellow, you find me as a ship on a breezeless ocean – becalmed, and much the worse for it."

"I am afraid I cannot help you," said I. "I find myself less a stormy petrel these days and more of an albatross."

Holmes leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. "And a hungry albatross at that," said he with a smile. "If the analogy holds, then your arrival is indeed fortuitous, for I know that Mrs Hudson has kippers in store which she has been attempting to pass onto me for several days now."

"You are not eating?" I inquired.

"Not kippers, no. Oh, please, help yourself. Food holds very little attraction for me at the present."

Mrs Hudson had chosen that moment to make an appearance, bearing a tray laden with covered plates and a gently steaming coffee pot. Her expression was eloquence itself as she glanced at Holmes, gave a faint shake of her head and raised her brows to heaven. I made muttered assurances that I would endeavour to make him take something and she departed, still deeply unhappy about her brooding tenant.

I poured coffee for us both and returned to my seat beside the fire. Holmes gave a dull noise that sounded like gratitude for my consideration and beyond an initial glance at the contents of the cup I had set beside him gave it not another thought.

This inattention worried me more than his other indiscretions. Closer inspection confirmed what had been my first impression, that his face seemed gaunter than ever, and the manner in which his clothes hung upon him indicated that his frame was suffering from deprivations which could only have negative effects on his overall well-being.

"Holmes, I know your diet is spare at the best of times, but I do not see how starving yourself will make your current situation any more bearable."

"Food is a fuel, Watson, like coals for the fire or gas for the light. Since I am forced into inactivity, then what need have I for superfluous nourishment? You say that starving myself will not help; contrarily, tell me what is to be gained by feeding myself with excess food until I become as overstuffed as Mycroft and his equal in waist size and sluggardness?"

"And how is your brother?"

"Alive, one supposes, since I have not heard otherwise. Beyond that…"

He shrugged, and let the thought trail into nothingness. I was concerned enough by his blackness of mood to set aside my plans for the day and determine not to leave his side until some suitable diversion could be found that did not involve his resorting yet again to narcotics.

I consulted my newspaper and was dismayed to find a paucity of pleasing entertainments. Between dancing horses, a celebrated sword-swallower and a singing mouse performing at the Strand Assembly Rooms, there was little to tempt either of us. Even St James's, normally the bastion of the finer tastes of society, could offer nothing more invigorating than a public meeting on the need to control factory emissions in the capital. It was no doubt a worthy subject, but one for which I could summon up little interest that day and Holmes even less.

I was on the point of desperation in suggesting a ramble through town when the sound of wheels outside, followed soon after by a rapping at the front door, gave me hope that a visitor with the prospect of a case would provide the necessary distraction my friend sorely needed to lift him from his ennui. I did not have long to wait. A few moments later, Mrs Hudson came up to tell us that a Mr Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard wished to speak to Mr Holmes.

Seldom have I seen a man move faster. The lethargy that had so marked his previous demeanour was shed in an instant. Holmes was up out of his chair and hurrying for his room before Mrs Hudson had a chance to finish speaking. From his frantic gesticulations before the door closed behind him, I gathered that he wanted me to delay the man while he dressed. Accordingly, I rose to greet the detective and offer him a cup of coffee.

"Thank you, no, Doctor," said he, a little uncomfortably, as though he would have preferred to be anywhere but in my presence. "I won't be staying. I just needed a brief word with Mr Holmes. Is he at home?"

"Yes, he'll be out in a minute."

He forced a smile. "Good. Once this little 'misunderstanding' is cleared up, I'll be on my way."

"Misunderstanding?" I queried.

"A small matter of clarification, nothing more."

I was about to press the detective for details when Holmes appeared, immaculate in dress, as unlike the slothful creature who had been lounging about but a few minutes before as was possible to imagine.

"Inspector Jones," said he. "A vexing case, I see."

Jones paled.

"Your hat, sir," said Holmes. "Those creases in the brim tell of trying times. Do sit down."

"I won't, thank you, Mr Holmes," said Jones. "I'm here today on business." He swallowed with effort and made a concerted effort to look my friend in the eye. "You see, Mr Holmes, the unhappy task falls to me of asking you to account for your whereabouts on Monday last."

Holmes came to an abrupt halt beside the fireplace. He turned on his heel with a quizzical look in his eye.

"_My_ whereabouts, Inspector?"

"I'm afraid I must know, sir."

"Why?"

Again, the detective swallowed. "Because that was the day that a Mr Peter Outhwaite of Burnley, Lancashire, shrugged off this mortal coil. Went with a bang, you might say. His family say there's foul play involved, so I'm bound to investigate. Now then, Mr Holmes, on Monday last, where were you?"

* * *

_Is Jones implying what I think he's implying?_

_Continued in Chapter Two!_


	2. Chapter Two

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter Two**

It was the impertinence of the detective's tone as much as the question that was being asked that raised my indignation. I would have put my thoughts into words about this unwarranted treatment of my friend by the official force who had every reason to show Holmes a little consideration after the many times he had provided the answer to a mystery that had left them baffled.

It was only the fleeting expression I saw pass across his face that caused me to hold my tongue.

I could deceive myself that I had fancied it, but there is something unforgettable in that look of frozen horror, the sort that roots a man to the spot and produces a rapid paling of the skin to a colouration of the most sickly hue, that is liable to imprint itself on one's mind and remain there when all other memories of the occasion have long since faded.

The casual observer might have missed it, for a second later, his usual mask of self-assurance and mild disdain had reasserted itself, further concealed by the cigarette that he took up and lit. His manner was calm enough, as though he had been asked nothing more provocative than the time of day. I, however, who had been privileged to know the most intimate details of his life and habits, perceived that this news had come as a shock to him. That look alone was enough to convince me of that, as surely as it told that Holmes knew the dead gentleman in question.

He took a moment before replying to draw deeply on his cigarette, whether to steady his nerves or show suitable scorn for the detective I could not say.

"Monday last, I was here," he stated.

"All day, sir?" Athelney Jones inquired, taking out a pocketbook and pencil to make notes.

"All day," Holmes confirmed.

The detective licked his dry lips before formulating his next question. "Did anyone see you, Mr Holmes?"

A long plume of smoke wended its way up to the ceiling. "I'm sorry to have to disappoint you, Mr Jones, but I was quite alone."

"No witnesses then, sir? What about Mrs Hudson?"

"She was away visiting her sister over the weekend. To my knowledge, she did not return until late Monday evening."

"I see," said Jones, jotting this down. "I shall have to confirm this with the lady, of course."

"Of course."

"You had no callers?"

This had gone quite far enough for my liking. I was not prepared to stand idly by while my friend was subjected to this intrusive and offensive questioning.

"What is the reason for these inquiries, Mr Jones?" I asked. "I understand you have to investigate a suspicious death, but what does it have to do with Mr Holmes?"

"To tell you the truth, Doctor, I'm not altogether sure this case isn't much ado about nothing. The gentleman in question, Mr Peter Outhwaite, met with a nasty accident on Monday evening."

"An accident, you say."

"That's my opinion, sir. A strange business by all accounts. None was more surprised than I to see your name come up in the proceedings, Mr Holmes."

"Not by choice," Holmes noted.

"Ah, then you did know this Mr Outhwaite."

"I knew _of_ him, which is quite a different matter. How did he die?"

"It seems he was a student of the Civil War, had some fancy that one of his ancestors was a Cavalier general. He had quite a collection of queer curios – muskets, helmets, that sort of paraphernalia. The pride of his collection was a cannon called Roaring Bessie. Something to do with some such siege, I understand. Well, on Monday last, there was to be a grand unveiling when he was to present it to Burnley civic council. According to his family, he'd spent a good deal of time and money restoring it, and he was justifiably proud of his work. The climax of the ceremony was to be a firing of Roaring Bessie, presided over by Mr Outhwaite. No sooner had he applied the taper than the cannon exploded. All that was left of the gentleman was his boots and plumed hat."

Athelney Jones paused in his narrative, waiting, so I assumed, for a comment from us. Since Holmes seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, I felt obliged to say something.

"A tragedy, no doubt," said I. "But I see no reason to suspect foul play. Weapons of war are never to be treated lightly, especially not antiques."

"My sentiments exactly," the detective concurred with some gusto. "I said as much to the Burnley force who carried out the original investigation. But the family made a fuss. They said the cannon had been in perfect working order before it left Mr Outhwaite's home on the Monday morning. They claim someone must have tampered with it in the few hours between it leaving his house and the ceremony."

"How so?"

"Wadding or some such material packed into the barrel would achieve the desired effect," Holmes remarked absently.

As instructive as this explanation was, I could have wished he had displayed better caution for his own position. Not surprisingly, Athelney Jones leapt on this statement immediately.

"You know about cannons, do you, sir?" he asked.

Holmes essayed a smile. "Only what one reads. Did the Burnley constabulary have any reason to believe this was the case?"

"There wasn't much left of either the cannon or Mr Outhwaite for anyone to come to any definite conclusions. This is why it falls to me to have to check where the interested parties were on the day in question. Once we have everyone accounted for, that's an end of the matter as far as I'm concerned. I'd be happy to write the whole thing off as an accident."

"Then why don't you?" I asked.

"I'm duty bound to investigate the facts, Doctor. I'm more than willing to take Mr Holmes's word for where he was on that day, seeing as how he has been of some use to the Yard over the years. If he says he was here, then fair enough by me. But others, the family especially, aren't so understanding, especially in a situation like this. A witness would have helped, Mr Holmes. As well you know, sir, I don't like to leave this sort of thing to chance."

"I was here," I spoke up on impulse.

Athelney Jones looked at me expectantly. Lying to the police was not something with which I was comfortable, but it seemed to me that Holmes was in dire need of my support if he was to avoid becoming a suspect in this death, suspicious or otherwise.

"Yes, I remember it clearly now. I called in at lunchtime on Monday."

I had in fact been nowhere near Baker Street that day or many before. Not that that mattered. My story was convincing enough to satisfy the portly detective, whose small eyes twinkled as he smiled and closed his notebook.

"That clears that up," said he with a sigh of contentment. "Mr Holmes could have hardly been in Lancashire tampering with Roaring Bessie if he was here in London at lunchtime. Good thing for you Dr Watson remembered that visit of his, sir."

Holmes had said nothing to contradict me. Even now, he simply nodded in acknowledgement of the detective's observation as he knocked his ash into the grate.

"Well, I'd better be on my way," said Jones. "This sort of thing is never pleasant, but I'm sure you understand, Mr Holmes."

"You have your duty, Mr Jones."

"Not a happy one though."

"Nevertheless, you performed admirably."

Jones brightened. "Kind of you to say so. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make my report. Good day to you both."

I showed him out, closing the door behind him. By the time I turned back, Holmes had vanished, only to reappear a moment later from his room, hat and cane in hand.

"Watson, I am afraid I shall have to forgo our afternoon's entertainment," said he. "A matter of some urgency has arisen."

"I had deduced that much for myself. Holmes, what the devil was that all about?"

He managed a tight smile. "Since you have declared yourself at liberty for the rest of the day, I would consider it a great courtesy if you would accompany me. I fancy I shall be in need of that sagacious common sense of yours in the interview that must follow."

"Certainly. But why?"

He waved my question aside. "Come, Doctor, I will explain on the way."

Not until we were safely installed in a cab and rattling through the streets in a southerly direction from Baker Street did Holmes attempt to shed any light on the events of the morning. From what Athelney Jones had said, I gathered that this business was of a deeply personal nature. For that reason, I was surprised that he had asked for my company, knowing how his reticence to discuss family matters with me had meant that seven years had passed before he had been willing to admit to the existence of a brother. I was more than pleased to be at his side, whatever the circumstances, for I was quite fevered with curiosity.

"One never knows what turn a day might take," Holmes declared as our cab took a turn into Regent Street. "I had resigned myself to yet another day of indolence, only to find myself accused and exonerated in turn. There was no need to provide false witness on my account, my dear fellow, although it was greatly appreciated. Proving I had spent Monday in bed would have been difficult, if not impossible. I fancy Athelney Jones would have liked nothing better than to clap me in irons and haul me away, despite his fine words to the contrary."

"You know I would never stand by and allow that to happen."

"Your faith in me does you credit, Watson, but I fear it is misplaced. I have committed folly of the worst kind. Had I not been preoccupied these last few days, I should have anticipated this business."

"Mr Outhwaite's death, you mean? Was he a prospective client then? You said you knew of him."

"I have never met the gentleman. I am familiar with his name only as one of twelve on a particular legal document. That is the limit of my knowledge of his affairs. It is what must surely follow that concerns me now." He sighed with irritation. "I have been most remiss in not following my usual practice of scanning the daily papers. Lancashire is a long way from London, to be sure, but so dramatic a demise must have provided the Grub Street hacks with considerable copy."

I cast my mind back to try to recall if I had noticed the account, but since my own daily round had been busy of late, I fear that I too had missed the report in the newspapers.

"You do not share Athelney Jones's view that Mr Outhwaite's death was an accident?"

Holmes gave a slight shrug. "I cannot say. Accidents do occur when one chooses to stand in close proximity to a dangerous piece of antiquated weaponry. My instincts tell me otherwise, however. I hope that I am wrong. If not, then I may already be too late."

A thrill of dread coursed down my spine. "Too late to prevent another death? Whose?"

We had entered Pall Mall and Holmes gestured to the building towards which our cab was hastening, one which I recognised immediately.

"The Diogenes Club? We're going to see your brother?"

"I have reason to believe that his life may be in danger. You see, his name is also on the document I mentioned earlier. Of the twelve, Mr Outhwaite makes the tenth person to have died. My concern now is to prevent Mycroft becoming the eleventh."

* * *

_Will Holmes be in time to save his brother? _

_Continued in Chapter Three!_


	3. Chapter Three

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter Three**

We were shown into the Stranger's Room, where a pot of tea and a plate of hot buttered crumpets had been left for us on the table. The dour-eyed steward then went in search of the redoubtable Mycroft Holmes, who was indeed in residence, thus dispelling the worst of our fears for his immediate safety.

The refreshments I found welcome, having missed breakfast, but Holmes could be persuaded into taking nothing. Bored into starvation before, now he shunned anything that could interfere with the clarity of his mind.

I was tempted to remind him that physical and mental collapse was likely to be the end result of these deprivations. I held back, knowing my words would fall on deaf ears. At his post in the bow window, he cut a gaunt figure, poisoning himself and his immediate surroundings with the smoke of one cigarette after another, while the brightness of the day caused deep shadows to fall across the staring lines of his cheekbones.

I believe I have never seen him as troubled as he was that afternoon, impenetrable beneath the armour of his intelligence, but still pray to those considerations for kinship that beset us all. I had yet to learn the basis for the concerns that worried at his soul; even in my ignorance I had resolved to offer what support I could until the matter was laid to rest. Once calm was restored, another case might come to occupy his restless mind and allay my anxieties for his poor state of health.

Before such time, however, there remained the question of his brother and the mysterious reason for our visit. I was halfway through my tea when Mycroft Holmes made his appearance. He was as convivial and rotund as ever, though to my consternation I noted a gash upon his forehead, bruising around his left eye and skinned knuckles on both his hands.

Sherlock Holmes gave his brother a cursory glance without stirring from the window. "What happened to you?"

"If you must know," came the dismissive reply, "I was whisked from my feet by an inebriated cabman when I stepped out of my rooms this morning."

"An accident, Mr Holmes?" I asked.

"One of those minor tribulations that will occur when one chooses to reside in such a dense environment," said he, offering his hand. "A pleasure, Dr Watson, as always."

"Those wounds of yours need dressing," I said. "If you wish—"

"Peter Outhwaite is dead," Holmes said abruptly, interrupting me.

Mycroft Holmes seemed momentarily confused. "Yes, I am aware of that fact. Indeed, I had expected you sooner, Sherlock. Oh, thank you, Doctor, for your consideration, but I am quite well. Do finish your tea while I talk with my brother. This will not take long."

"I should prefer that Watson hears what we have to say, Mycroft," Holmes said, finally quitting his post to approach his sibling. "Since he was forced into the unfortunate position of having to provide me with an alibi for Monday, I think he is owed an explanation."

I was left feeling most uncomfortable by the situation, as though I was stood between two warring giants. Neither seemed willing to back down from their opposing stances and the air fairly tingled with confrontation. Some matters are too personal even for the most intimate of acquaintances and I had no wish to pry, despite what Holmes may wish.

I was on the verge of suggesting that I leave, when Mycroft Holmes gave a loud sigh, imbued with what sounded like resignation, and threw up his hands.

"Very well, Sherlock, if you wish to air our dirty linen in public, so be it," said he.

"If you would rather that I leave," I offered.

Mycroft Holmes shook his head. "My dear sir, I would not dream of it. Forgive my reticence, but I consider the discussion of one's financial affairs outside the bank manager's office to be inexcusably vulgar. By all means stay if your sensibilities will not be offended."

"I believe my sensibilities will bear it."

Holmes glanced at me and smiled. His brother settled himself into an armchair and helped himself to a pinch of snuff before commencing his tale.

"We must begin with what the younger generation would term 'ancient history," said he affably. "When I was seven, I was asked what I would like for my birthday. I asked for the collected works of Catullus. What I got was a brother." He glanced at Sherlock Holmes with a disparaging eye. "I still think I would have preferred the Catullus, but there is it. What's done is done. One learns to live with disappointment."

Holmes let out an involuntary snort of laughter and perched himself on the arm of my chair while his brother continued with his story.

"Great Uncle Hobart took a different view of the matter," Mycroft Holmes went on. "He said that should the new arrival prove anything like the rest of the family, then we would be on our uppers in no time at all. He said what I needed was ambition, or failing that, a steady income and the will to live. Therefore, he purchased for me a share in a tontine."

"Excuse me, a what?"

"The name derives from the originator of the scheme, Lorenzo Tonti, a Neapolitan banker, who introduced the idea in France in about 1653. Put in its simplest form, Doctor, it is a wager based on life expectancy."

"I do not follow."

"A group of participants pay an initial sum, which goes into a combined fund to accrue interest and from which each member receives an annuity," he explained. "Each person's share of the annuity becomes larger as the participants die. The final survivor receives the whole of the capital."

"So, he who lives the longest takes the money?"

Mycroft Holmes nodded enthusiastically. "You have it in one, sir!"

I am afraid that I did not share his zeal. "Forgive me for saying so, Mr Holmes, but it seems to be as likely a recipe for the encouragement of murder as ever I have heard."

"Many others have been of the same opinion," said Holmes. "That is why tontines have fallen out of favour."

His cigarette case appeared under my nose. I shook my head. The room was already stifling enough without my adding to the smoke haze.

"My brother tells me that I should withdraw," said Mycroft Holmes. "No doubt I am about to hear his thoughts on the subject yet again. I know he values your opinion, Dr Watson, so I turn to you, as a normal, sensible type of fellow, to judge between us."

A glow of pride warmed my insides at this praise, fanned into submission by a vague sense of unease. A pronouncement was expected of me worthy of Solomon, yet beneath the twin gazes of two brothers with more intelligence at their command than many of the departments of government put together, I felt decidedly inadequate for the task.

"I am not sure I am qualified to opine on such a matter," I ventured.

"The matter is elementary enough," said Holmes, rising from my side to resume his restless pacing. "Twelve boys were originally entered into this tontine in 1854. Ten of them are now dead, including the unfortunate Mr Outhwaite who died on Monday."

"Are you suggesting that a member of the tontine is killing off the others?"

"It is a possibility, I do not deny. Mycroft, however, has other ideas."

"The notion is quite preposterous," said he. "There is a clause in the agreement that any member found disposing of the others will have his share revoked."

"Small comfort to the victims," muttered Holmes.

"Ten men," I said. "Were they accidents or from natural causes?"

"A mixture of both, Doctor," said Mycroft Holmes. "Three died in the army. One was lost at sea. Percy Galbraith was eaten by a tiger whilst hunting in India. James Withers died of a septic toe and Michael Brooks was a valetudinarian whose morbid concern for his health was finally validated. These deaths have occurred over a number of years. I see nothing unusual in them."

"Then what is your explanation for the fact that Outhwaite's death accounts for the third this month?" asked Holmes.

"Coincidence."

Holmes shook his head. "Do not be naïve, Mycroft. Even you cannot deny that the rate of mortality amongst the members of this tontine has picked up pace recently."

"Misfortunes, but accidents nonetheless."

"How can you be sure?"

Mycroft Holmes turned to me. "The two gentlemen who died earlier this month were twins, Cyril and Humphrey Brackett. They had lived their entire lives apart so that should disaster befall one of them, the other would remain to continue with the tontine. That fact makes the manner of their deaths especially ironic. You heard of the Dartfield train disaster, I suppose?"

"Where the carriages turned over coming into the station?" said I. "A number of people were killed on the train and on the platform, I believe."

"Indeed. Cyril Brackett was on the train and Humphrey Brackett was on the platform. A tragedy, but indisputably an accident. Unless you suggest, Sherlock, that someone contrived the incident?"

Holmes stuck his hands stubbornly in his pockets and said nothing.

"Which brings us to Mr Peter Outhwaite," Mycroft went on. "I will allow that his death was a little out of the ordinary. However, I was questioned by some oaf of a detective yesterday—"

"Athelney Jones?" I inquired.

"Yes, that's the fellow. As luck would have it, I was in conference all day Monday with the…" He checked himself with a smile. "With several fellows who were able to support my story. Jones assured me that the alibis of the other surviving member of the tontine, along with those of his family, were watertight. Therefore, I am led to the conclusion that Outhwaite's death was another accident, since I cannot see his family wishing him dead. He was far more valuable to them alive."

"How valuable?"

The intrusiveness of my question was unforgivable. I was deeply intrigued, however, and my curiosity would know no reasonable restraint.

Mycroft Holmes considered. "Once the administrative deductions are taken into account and the legal fees, add to that the interest less the amounts already paid out for the annuities, why then the total figure is somewhere in the region of £24,000."

I nearly choked. "That is a considerable amount of money, Mr Holmes."

"Yes," said he, unconcernedly. "One could live comfortably on such a sum."

"One might kill for less," remarked Holmes.

His brother eyed him with amusement. "So where _were_ you on Monday, Sherlock?"

"Not in Lancashire, disposing of your rivals, if that is what you mean."

Mycroft chuckled. "Forgive me, brother, but you take this matter far too seriously."

"Then how do you account for your near brush with death this morning?"

His gaze travelled to his grazed knuckles. "I have been knocked down by thoughtless cab and bus drivers no less than eight times in my forty-three years, once incurring a broken arm and a sprained ankle. Since none of the previous occasions bothered you, Sherlock, I fail to see why you attach such significance to this particular incident."

Holmes sighed. The breath he released was anything but even. "Mycroft, for a man of your undoubted intelligence, you can be as innocent as a babe in arms at times."

"So you are fond of telling me. I shall defer comment on that statement, however, until I have heard the good Doctor's opinion. Well, sir, you have heard the facts. What is your prognosis? Will I live to a ripe old age, do you think?"

I knew my own mind in the matter. Still I hesitated.

"It is not for me to say."

Mycroft Holmes smiled genially. "You have reservations no doubt that whichever side you choose to support, you shall please one of us and alienate the other. Let me assure you that your concerns are quite unfounded. I have not been seriously offended by another man's opinion since 1867 and Sherlock has a very forgiving nature where you are concerned. So, speak up. What should I do?"

I considered my response. "Are you certain that none of the deaths were deliberate?"

"There are only two certainties in life: death and taxes. For everything else, there is always scope for error." Mycroft Holmes pressed his fingertips together and regarded me gravely. "Are you a gambling man, Doctor?"

"The occasional wager. Only what I can afford."

"Very wise." He essayed a smile. "Normally, one does not like to take risks with one's continued well being. But seeing how I have managed to survive thus far, I consider that the end may be in sight. Not that I crave the money, you understand, but I do not like to lose, especially when I have to expend very little effort to do so. I think to withdraw now would be a great insult to the memory of Great Uncle Hobart."

"I would find your death even more insulting," said Holmes. "You are gambling with your very existence that this other fellow—"

"Uriah Gradgrind."

"Will not actively seek your removal, if he hasn't already."

"I doubt it, since I am reliably informed that he is confined to his bed."

"His relations then."

"He has two nephews, Fulke and Frederick. Both can account for their whereabouts on Monday last, which is more that what you can do, brother." Mycroft Holmes looked expectantly at me. "Well, Doctor, yours is the final say."

"This close to winning the prize, I too would be unwilling to withdraw if I was sure that there was no risk to myself."

"Hah! We agree. You are outvoted, Sherlock."

I would not say that my friend took this news too badly, except for a look of mild displeasure that settled on his face.

"Do not feel badly, Watson," said he. "Mycroft's mind was made up long before you ever entered this discussion. He puts his case most convincingly. I, however, must state mine. I consider this to be an unnecessary risk. That being the case, you will not mind, I am sure, if I take certain steps to ensure that ridiculous arrangement does not end with your termination, Mycroft."

"What do you propose?"

"I shall seek to test the Gradgrinds' alibis."

Mycroft Holmes slowly shook his head. "If you want my advice, Sherlock—"

"Not particularly."

"Well, you shall have it anyway. Do not interfere. The simplest of situations have been made infinitely worse by well-intentioned meddlers."

"Then you do have your reservations!"

"I have certain thoughts on the matter, yes."

"And yet still you persist."

"I have my reasons. In the meantime, I shall not insult your intelligence by suggesting the potential for harm that may arise from your interference. I would merely advise you against it. Let matters take their natural course."

"Even if it means you being murdered."

"It will not come to that. I may die, but then that is the lot of all mankind."

"A particularly fitting sentiment for your tombstone," said Holmes abruptly. "Well, we can do no more here. Come, Watson, we have other more pressing matters that call upon our time today. Good day to you, Mycroft."

He was gone out of the room before I had the chance to rise to my feet. I made apologies for our dramatic departure, at which Mycroft Holmes smiled with understanding.

"Doctor?" he called as I made for the door. "Should the need arise, do not feel obliged to have to lie to the police again on my brother's account. He does not need an alibi."

"From what you said, the police might well believe that he has quite a motive."

"The money, you mean? No, not at all. He will get nothing. He knows this. Should I win, the lion's share shall be dispersed to various charitable institutions."

"You would not keep it?" I asked, slightly taken aback.

"And become a target for every marriage-minded woman and criminal in town? Good heavens, what a prospect! My needs are simple: my work and my club. Anything else is a mere annoyance. Good day, sir."

With that, he took up a newspaper, leaving me to hurry away after my rapidly departing friend.

* * *

_£24,000 is worth about £1.8 million in today's money. A very tidy sum. But is it worth the gamble? Which brother do **you** think is right?_

_Continued in Chapter Four!_


	4. Chapter Four

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter Four**

I caught up with Holmes on the steps outside the club. Far from settling his mind, the interview with his brother had only served to worsen his temper, so that now a frown carved its lines upon his brow and his eyes were as dark and stormy as a winter's morn. He shot me a look of impatience, took my arm and hauled me away.

"I take it that you do not intend to follow your brother's advice," I asked when we finally came to a stop some little distance from the club's door.

"As much as he intends to take mine," said Holmes. "I regret to say this, Watson, but I fear Mycroft is suffering from a softening of the brain. He must see that this is an absurd risk. I am sure he persists with it only to spite me."

"That seems a little extreme, to gamble with his life just to annoy you."

"You do not know Mycroft. He can be as stubborn as a mule when the mood takes him. The more one pushes against his opposition, the more steadfast he becomes."

"Then perhaps you should agree with him. That way, he won't have anything to fight against."

"And have him think he has won the argument?" Holmes's tone was almost indignant. "Never! He knows he is in the wrong, but will not admit it. To side with him would only make matters worse. You saw his reaction when you supported his decision."

"I didn't quite support it, Holmes. What I said was—"

"That you would continue only if you were sure that there was no risk to yourself. Yes, Doctor, I heard you perfectly well. There is nothing wrong with my hearing. There is nothing wrong with your statement either, if it were to be applied to any other situation than this."

"You feel there is considerable risk to your brother then?"

"If you were the Gradgrinds, would you leave the question of £24,000 to chance?"

"It is a great deal of money."

"Which Mycroft manifestly neither needs or wants, and which makes his persistence in the matter all the more incomprehensible."

"He told me he would donate it to various charitable organisations if he won."

Holmes nodded. "He has said something before now about giving it to orphans and the Chelsea Pensioners."

"Very worthy causes. You do not mind?"

"Not in the slightest. I would mind very much, however, should the end result of this farce be a 'convenient' accident that carries Mycroft off."

"You think the incident with the cab this morning was deliberate?"

Holmes pursed his lips and a nerve began to twitch at the side of his jaw. "How many times have you had a near miss like that?"

"A few."

"As many as my brother?"

I shook my head.

"Then, allowing for Mycroft's advantage in years, would you say that the eight such incidents he claimed are more than a man living in the capital might reasonably expect?"

"It only works out to one every five-and-a-half years or so," said I. "Hardly a concerted effort on the part of a would-be murderer. And Pall Mall is a particularly busy road."

Holmes glanced up and down the street at the throng of cabs weaving their way between the omnibuses and delivery wagons. Here and there, a few hardy souls were taking their lives into their own hands by darting out between horses and rolling wheels.

"Well, perhaps there is some truth in what you say. Mycroft is not the most agile of individuals and I dare say he is prone to dawdling when he is otherwise preoccupied."

I had a mind to make an observation, but I was not sure that my thoughts would be welcomed. I had the greatest regard for Holmes, yet I had to wonder if he was not too close to the situation to take an entirely rational view. It was a valid consideration. Whether he would thank me for saying so was another matter.

"Holmes, you have said before that your brother is your superior in observation and deduction," I ventured. "If he reasons that the odds in this gamble are on his side, then perhaps you should accept his decision." I braced myself for the most difficult part. "You would agree that you are not in the best frame of mind at present."

The look he turned upon me was fierce. "Are you suggesting that my judgement is impaired, Doctor?"

"Not at all. But he is your brother. Under such circumstances, it is natural to feel—"

"Even worse!" Holmes interjected with a snort of displeasure. "You now believe I am addled with excess emotion. My, how I must be slipping in your estimation! Let me assure you that, despite my familial connections with the case, I view this as nothing more than an abstract problem. Were Mycroft my client, I would offer my advice and let that be an end of the matter."

I was not about to let this declaration of detached interest pass, especially having observed how affected he had been earlier.

"But he is not your client, is he, Holmes? And I do not believe for one instant that you intend to let the matter rest. For all your assurances to the contrary, this isn't just another case. You cannot deny that your feelings _must_ play a part."

The steel of his eyes mellowed to grey, and his shoulders sagged just a little. "Yes, you are right," he admitted with a sigh of defeat. "As much as it appals me to have to confess this to you, Watson, I feel as one who is forced to stand idly by and watch while a child attempts to pluck coals from the fire. One knows the outcome of such folly, but is powerless to prevent it."

"Under the circumstances," I said, choosing my words with care, "I believe you are right to be cautious."

"I could tell you of a hundred instances where someone has been murdered over the issue of money. Lust and greed, Watson, the principal factors in many a crime. To do nothing runs contrary to all of my instincts."

"I understand."

He glanced across at me. "Yes, I believe you do. Had there been a way to save your own brother from the mire of his folly, would you not have seized it with both hands?"

The distance of several years had not eased the knot of grief that had laced itself about my heart the day I had received news of his death. Now it tightened its hold yet again. For a moment, I could not speak. A strong and consoling hand came to rest on my shoulder.

"Forgive me, it was not my intention to resurrect painful memories," said Holmes.

"I would have gone through hell and high water for him if I thought it would have made any difference," I said with difficultly. "If I did fail him, it was not for want of trying."

"I never imagined that it was." He paused. "You do understand why I have to do this? Why I have to be sure in my own mind that the Gradgrinds do not actively seek Mycroft's death."

I nodded. "You have my whole-hearted support."

"Capital. Then, first, we must endeavour to discover where this family live."

"Might the administrators of the tontine be able to provide you with that information?"

Holmes shook his head. "They would not, on the grounds of what I wish to do with that knowledge."

"Scotland Yard then?"

"I would rather not call upon a favour which might be put to better use in the future."

"How _are_ we to get it?"

"My brother would have it. Or at least he would have some idea of the location where the gentleman resides."

"Given our previous discussion, I doubt he would give it to you."

"Then, my dear fellow, we must take it."

I had grave misgivings when I saw the conspiratorial gleam that had sprung to his eye. "Do not tell me that you intend to burgle your own brother's rooms?"

A wolfish grin came to his face. "Watson, you are scintillating today. That is _precisely_ what I intend to do."

I was accustomed with his loose treatment of the law when the situation demanded, but even in these circumstances, this was surely a step too far.

"Holmes, is this wise?" I said. "I cannot help feeling that your brother will not be pleased when he discovers what you have done."

He chuckled. "On the contrary, he will be furious, which is a good enough reason in itself for implementing our plan. Have no fear. We shall be long gone by the time he finds out. Come, our destination is the house across the road with the black door and oval fanlight."

We hurried across the road and Holmes paused outside the front door of his brother's lodgings.

"A quite formidable obstacle stands in our way," he explained. "Her name is Mrs Morgan and she is my brother's landlady. She guards her domain as fiercely as a lioness and has been known to eject interlopers before now with the aid of her broom. She also has quite the worst memory of any person of my acquaintance, which may or may work to our advantage. Follow my lead, my dear fellow, and do not say a word."

I had no desire to tangle with so doughty a foe and took up position on the steps at the rear to observe the proceedings from a safe distance while Holmes knocked on the door. A small, untidy and distinctly fleshy woman, so plump around her middle that she appeared almost round, answered the door. She regarded us with an unfriendly eye.

"Good day, Mrs Morgan," said Holmes affably, adopting that deferential tone he was wont to use when addressing members of the opposite sex. "I trust you are well."

Had he possessed the inclination, I have often thought that Holmes could have cut a swathe through the ranks of womanhood of this nation. He tells me that mine is the natural advantage; yet, with a little effort, he is the embodiment of charm itself. I have seen him employ his talents to devastating effect to wither the defences of many a wary female. There are few more impressive sights than his ability to melt the most hostile of womanly demeanours.

For all this, however, he singularly failed to make an impression on the sour-faced Mrs Morgan. Her eyes were narrowed and suspicious, and her arms remained tightly-folded, with a stout rolling pin clasped firmly in her podgy right hand. I fancy Casanova would have found himself foiled by this redoubtable matron.

"No hawkers," she said sternly. "I'll not have my gentlemen disturbed."

"Nor would I dream of it," said Holmes. "I have been here before, Mrs Morgan. My elder brother is Mr Mycroft Holmes."

She looked my friend up and down with a most critical eye. "I don't remember you."

"Nevertheless, madam—"

"You don't look anything like him neither."

"Alas, I was less favoured. I understand he had something of an accident this morning. An incident with a hansom cab?"

She sniffed. "He told you about that, did he?"

"Indeed he did."

"Then why're you asking me if you already know?"

I heard Holmes take a steadying breath. "Because my brother was sparing with the details and I am concerned for his well being."

"Well, there's not much to say about it," she said, finally relenting. "The driver was drunk. Knocked your poor brother to the ground he did, and he's such a nice gentlemen. Very quiet, doesn't make a fuss. Not like some 'as live here." Her gaze travelled to an upstairs window and I felt a tinge of sympathy for the object of her ire. "The police were on hand for a change and they soon had the devil in cuffs. Mr Holmes wouldn't hear of having a doctor, so I patched him up as best I could and he went over to his club."

"Yes, we've just left him there," said Holmes. "He is much shaken by his ordeal, and has asked me to step across to collect something he needs from his rooms. May I?"

Mrs Morgan moved her bulk from the doorway to allow him to pass. I tried to follow, only to find my way barred.

"He with you?" she asked of Holmes, gesturing to me.

Once I had been suitably vouched for, I was allowed access. I followed Holmes upstairs until we came to a door on the first landing.

"You have a key, I take it?" I asked.

Holmes shook his head. "I thought it best not to ask, lest we further raise Mrs Morgan's suspicions."

"Then how are we to gain entry?"

He took a large bunch of keys from his pocket. "With skill, dexterity and a pick. Be a good fellow and keep watch."

I had a few anxious moments watching the landing above and the hall below while he tinkered with the lock. Finally, the door swung open and Holmes stepped inside. I lingered on the threshold, reluctant to intrude into Mycroft Holmes's private domain. My friend had other ideas, however. I was grabbed by the sleeve of my coat and dragged inside.

My surroundings came as a revelation. I had imagined the brothers to be similar in habit. Yet compared with the clutter and untidiness with which Holmes liked to surround himself, these rooms were spartan.

Several shelves with an orderly line of books in height order, a few trinkets on the mantelpiece, a wardrobe and bed in the adjoining chamber, and a capacious armchair positioned to make best advantage of the fire struggled to fill the spacious room. The largest object of furniture in the room was a bureau, and it was to this that Holmes went and began to rifle through the drawers. He extracted several files and held them out to me.

"I would rather not," I said. "I don't mind saying that I am extremely uncomfortable being here, let alone with prying into your brother's private affairs."

"As you wish."

Holmes turned back to the bureau and continued his search, while I took the liberty of inspecting the titles of the books. If it is true that a man's choice of literature has much to say about his character, then Mycroft Holmes, like his brother, could only be said to be a most complex individual indeed.

His collection was a curious mix of the political, poetical and whimsical. A copy of Byron's _The Vision of Judgement_ rubbed shoulders with Caesar's _De Bello Gallico_, while Blake's _Songs of Innocence_ filled a space between Paine's _The Rights of Man_ and a first edition of Burton's _The Anatomy of Melancholy_ dated to the mid 17th century. Nestling betwixt the wall and a worn copy of Machiavelli's _Il Principe_ was a small volume entitled _Natural Theology_, from the middle of which protruded a slip of paper.

Curiosity got the better of me. I took down the book, which fell open at the page with the paper marker. My eye was caught by a passage in which the author attempted to explain about the inferences to be drawn from a watch found upon the ground. In stating that from so insignificant an object, one might infer the existence of a maker and beyond him, an artificer who conceived the original design and made it fit for purpose, I was reminded irresistibly of other words that followed similar lines.

I recalled that I had described Holmes's assertion in his own work, _The Book of Life_, that from one drop of water, a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or Niagara without ever having seen one, as 'ineffable twaddle'. I had since learned otherwise. Had it not been for that fortuitous meeting that cast our lot together, I would still be scoffing at lines like these in my ignorance.

"William Paley had an original way of looking at the world, did he not?" Holmes remarked idly.

"Somewhat like your own," I replied.

"Some years in advance. You'll note the date of that work is 1802. Proof that there is nothing new under the sun. For a theologian and a philosopher, he had a delicious turn of phrase. As he said, 'who can refute a sneer?' Who indeed?"

"Your brother has an interest in theology?"

"Not to my knowledge. The book was mine originally. I passed it onto Mycroft many years ago to spare myself the trouble and expense of having to purchase a birthday gift for him. I had hoped he would give it back to me. That particular volume is now exceedingly rare."

I turned to the front of the book to confirm this and found a childish scrawl, indicating that this had indeed been a gift from the younger to the elder brother. A memory arose of Christmases past, of books containing my own jottings and season's greetings for people now only dimly remembered. Once again, the ghosts of yesterday became all too real.

I replaced the book on its shelf and looked over Holmes's shoulder. "Will you be much longer?"

"I cannot say. Mycroft's system of organisation leaves much to be desired."

I smiled to myself. "Unlike your own."

"The difference is that I know where everything is." He glanced up at me. "Still feeling uncomfortable, Watson?"

"Intensely. This room isn't at all like I expected."

"You thought it would be more after my own taste?" He shook his head. "My brother is far too lazy to be untidy. Cultivating a comfortable sense of disorder takes time and effort. Besides, for Mycroft, this is only a place to rest his head at night. Ah!"

He let out an exclamation of triumph and held a piece of paper in the air.

"What did I tell you? Here it is." He ran his eye down the page. "Now, Mr Gradgrind, where do you live? Well, well, Bournemouth. I dare say the sea air will do us the world of good."

He passed the page to me. "Holmes, it says here that he is the _Reverend_ Gradgrind. Surely you don't imagine a man of the cloth would—"

"I knew a case of a parson once who took to poisoning the members of his congregation who complained about the length of his sermons. Granted, he was suffering the effects of senility, but anything is possible, Watson."

"Even so."

"Then let us reserve judgement until we meet the gentleman. Should he prove to be the very picture of piety, I shall rest easy in my mind. Now make haste, my dear friend, we have a train to catch!"

* * *

_Are the Gradgrinds out to get Mycroft? Off we go to Bournemouth to find out!_

_Continued in Chapter Five!_


	5. Chapter Five

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter Five**

We arrived at Bournemouth a little after four. The journey had been uneventful, save for my finally persuading Holmes to take some nourishment before he fainted away from lack of food and nervous exhaustion. He deigned, after much hesitation, to share my sandwich and a pot of tea in the dining car, but that was the extent of his interest.

Indeed, I fancied that his thoughts were already in advance of the speeding engine, far away in distant coast-nestling Bournemouth and the machinations, real or imagined, of the Gradgrind family. His eyes had taken on that introspective look, the shield against the mirror of his soul, which told me he was exerting his full powers on the matter in hand. It was some relief to me, therefore, that I had had the foresight to purchase a newspaper at the station, otherwise my journey would have been very tiresome indeed.

The answer to my question of how we were to locate the Reverend Gradgrind in the bustling seaside town proved to be elementary. Our first port of call was to the nearest vicarage, where a young, gap-toothed clergyman informed us that Gradgrind was in retirement, having returned the previous year from missionary work in Africa broken in health.

He lived, so we were informed, with his two nephews, who undertook the responsibility for his care. Moreover, he was a much respected and much loved member of the Bournemouth community, though now sorely absent from the social round due to the nature of his illness, which had left him confined to the house and his bed.

I take no joy in seeing my friend proved wrong, but on this occasion, I was pleased to hear that Mycroft Holmes appeared to be in very little danger from the titular head of the Gradgrind family. I mentioned as much to Holmes as we set out for the address that the vicar had given us, only to find my words met with a dark scowl of disagreement.

"Ah, but you forget the nephews, Watson," said he. "If their uncle is as ill as we have been led to believe, they have an excellent motive for wishing the swift removal of the other members of the tontine."

"Even so, they could not have contrived a train crash."

"It is easy enough to derail a train, as it is to manufacture the self-destruction of a cannon."

Whilst I was willing to allow the possibility, his remarks did seem to be stretching the limits of implausibility. My faith in my friend's skills has long been unshakeable, but on rare occasions, it has seemed to me that he has been guilty of the over-application of logic, in looking for a remarkable and fantastic explanation based on his own special knowledge and experience, where a more prosaic one was in order. I felt very much that such was the case now, and was strongly persuaded to speak out; to do otherwise would have been a disservice to us both.

"Holmes, I do believe you are allowing your imagination to run away with you. How on earth would they know that one of the Brackett twins would be on the train and the other on the platform?"

"I will allow that such a supposition does require utter faith in the long arm of coincidence. Well, let us trust that my suspicions are unfounded."

"I think even you would agree that you are theorising before you have all the evidence," I reminded him. "A capital mistake, I believe you called it."

He gave me a sideways glance and smiled. "I forget what a quite excellent memory you have, my dear fellow. I shall have to be careful what I say in the future. But you are quite correct. As you have already been kind enough to call to my attention, my judgement in this matter is somewhat clouded by my proximity to the events. Add to this my speculations, and I find myself biased in favour of believing the worst of the Gradgrinds. I begin to fear, Watson, that this may be nothing more than a wild goose chase."

"If it is, you will not find me complaining."

"You would not in either case, another attribute which makes you the most invaluable of companions. Without the salt of your common sense to pour on the fire of my imagination, I dare say I should have been consumed long ago."

It is well that I am not a man who seeks effusive praise for his efforts, for I would have been discouraged long ago by Holmes's roundabout method of expressing his appreciation for my presence. Without question, mine _was_ the humbler role in our alliance; it was always a reassurance to know, however, that it was a role of worth, for all my drabness beside my illustrious companion.

I saw also how I could be a source of further consolation, by voicing a consideration that Holmes had yet to touch upon.

"If they have do have designs upon your brother's life, then our visit may warn them off," I suggested.

Holmes nodded. "There again, if they have had a hand in the previous deaths, they are not without pluck. Our visit may simply force them to be more cautious."

"Is that why your brother told you not to meddle, do you think?"

"Possibly." He glanced at me and a note of impatience entered his voice. "Do you have somewhere you have to be, Watson?"

I returned my watch to my pocket. "No. As I told you, I am free for the rest of the day."

"Then do stop checking the time every ten minutes. It is a most vexing habit of yours."

"I wasn't aware that I was," I said. "However, since you mention it, I would prefer not to miss the last train back to London. I must be home by tonight."

"Doubtless you will. I do not anticipate that we shall be detained long in Bournemouth." He cast me a penetrating look. "What is so special about tomorrow that necessitates your presence in London?"

"Mary and I are going to the Zoo."

"Aren't you both a little old for that?"

"We are taking the Forrester children. Their mother is ill, their father away and they wanted to see the monkeys, so we stepped into the breach."

Holmes gave a cry of dismay. "My dear fellow, what possessed you to agree to such a devilish torment?"

"Mary was their governess, and the children are very fond of her. Also Mary thought…"

"Go on," he urged when I paused.

"Mary thought it would be good practice for us."

Holmes took a moment to consider this. "Am I to understand that congratulations are in order?"

"No. But we anticipate."

"Indeed."

"Well, it has been two years. We had hoped that by now…"

I let the thought hang to see what he would make of it.

"That your numbers would have increased exponentially," said he. "No doubt friends are asking when the happy event will take place and you are fretting. I should not worry, Watson. Mycroft and I were born in the autumn of our parent's lives. Even then, I understand it came as something of a shock. Our mother was expecting new curtains; instead, she got my brother."

"And then later you also."

"Well, Mycroft blames that on Budleigh Salterton."

"What?"

"A charming Devonshire town on the coast, it has the advantage of having enough of interest to be diverting without being onerous. One wonders what the result would have been had they chosen to holiday in Bognor that year."

"Having been to neither place, I don't believe I am sufficiently qualified to venture an opinion," I said. "Now I think about it, Mary and I haven't had a holiday since the wedding."

"You may have hit upon the crux of your problem," said Holmes. "A spell away from London would do you the world of good. Yes, I thoroughly recommend Budleigh Salterton at this time of year."

"Be that as it may, I have not the time or the finances at present to take a holiday."

"Then a day trip to Bournemouth shall have to suffice. Ah, here we are at the Gradgrind residence. Time to beard our quarry in his den."

He sprang up the steps and applied himself to the door knocker. Footsteps sounded across a wooden floor from inside and presently the door was opened by a bespectacled man of about thirty.

"Is the Reverend Gradgrind at home?" Holmes asked.

"My uncle, sir," said the man. "And you are?"

"Mr Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson."

The man's face blanched and a sweaty sheen took hold. "What do you want here?" he demanded. "My uncle is a sick man. If you have come to hasten his end—"

Holmes held up his hand. "It is not my intention to cause distress, Mr Gradgrind. You recognise my name; then surely you must understand that the concerns you have for your uncle are shared on my part for my brother. I wish merely to talk."

For a long moment, Gradgrind hesitated. Finally, he opened the door and allowed us to enter a mahogany-panelled tomb of a house, ill-lit by either windows or gaslight and stifling in atmosphere. The chamber into which we were shown was more fitted to the description of library than sitting room, for meticulously-labelled books on shelves lined every wall and stacks of hardbacks balanced precariously on slim-legged tables. The floor seemed to be as one great carpet of books, so that we had to exercise the greatest of care where we placed our feet as we negotiated our way to the sofa.

"Forgive the mess," said our host. "I am something of a bibliophile."

"Indeed," said Holmes, shifting a pile of yellowing journals to one side to make room for me to sit down. "We would never have guessed."

"I am Mr Fulke Gradgrind. What is it you wished to discuss, Mr Holmes?"

"I'm sure you are aware that my brother and your uncle represent the last two survivors of the tontine."

"I am aware of that fact, sir. How is your brother?"

Holmes's stare was quite level when he replied. "As well as one might expect considering he was run down by a cab this morning."

"Dear me," said Gradgrind, shaking his head. "Accidents do seem to be the order of the moment. Did you hear about poor Mr Peter Outhwaite? Quite exploded, so they tell me. Uncle was very distressed at the news."

I was watching his expression as closely as was my companion, and it seemed to me that Gradgrind's reaction was spontaneous enough to be genuine. Appearances, it is true, may be deceptive, but I was having trouble seeing this stringy specimen as having the nerve to perpetrate the crimes which Holmes suspected of him. In truth, he seemed as fusty as his books.

"Where were you on Monday last?" Holmes asked.

Gradgrind fairly sprang from his chair. "Do you imagine, Mr Holmes, that I had any hand in Mr Outhwaite's unfortunate demise?"

"I can imagine many things a man may do for money, Mr Gradgrind."

"Do you accuse me, sir? Do you have the audacity to come unbidden into my home and pour suspicion upon me? You ask me for my whereabouts, but where, sir, were you, you who have an equal interest in the outcome of the tontine?"

Holmes essayed a smile. "I was in London."

"I can vouch for that," I said.

"Well, Mr Holmes, I was here in Bournemouth. On Monday I was giving an address to the Bournemouth scion of the Bibliophilist Society of Great Britain on the conservation and preservation of folio editions. Sixty people can vouch for me, sir."

"And your brother?" Holmes inquired gently.

His mouth screwed up with displeasure. "My brother, Frederick, was up before the magistrate at noon, on a charge of being drunk and disorderly the previous evening."

At that very moment, the front door banged and a stiff breeze gusted in, lifting a pile of papers from the desk. Fulke Gradgrind ran after them, expressing his consternation in muttered tones. In the wake of this minor turbulence came a fair-haired, rather dissolute young man of five-and-twenty, who staggered in wearing a bright red carnation in his button hole and already looking the worse for wear.

"I've just met a lovely young thing down by the bathing huts," he enthused. "Why she had the most perfect—" He broke off abruptly when he saw us. "Good heavens, visitors?"

Fulke Gradgrind brought his paperwork under control and made the introductions. "Gentlemen, this is my brother, Frederick."

"Freddy," said he as an imbecilic smile took shape on his face. "Friends of yours, Fulke? More biblio-what-d'you-call-its?"

"No, Frederick, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes and his friend, Dr Watson."

The young man's face registered his surprise. "As in 'tontine Mr Holmes'?"

"That would be my elder brother, Mr Gradgrind," said Holmes.

"Sherlock Holmes," Freddy Gradgrind said, regarding my friend with interest. "It seems to me that I know that name." His grin broadened and he snapped his fingers. "I have it! Aren't you that trapeze artiste who does that novelty act with the four chickens and the ball of fire?"

"Mr Holmes is the foremost private consulting detective in London, if not Europe, sir," I informed him.

Freddy Gradgrind cast his eye over our persons. "Detective, eh? Yes, I have heard of you. Could you solve the greatest mystery of all and tell us when these old folk are going to shrug off this mortal coil and release some capital for the younger generation?"

"Frederick!" said his elder brother sharply. "For shame!"

This remonstration was dismissed with an idle wave. "Don't be such a bore, Fulke. You know, gentlemen, my brother is as stuffy as these old books of his," he confided, treating us to the beery fumes of his breath. "One day, I'll come home and find he's turned into a book himself."

"Why don't you see how uncle is faring?" Fulke Gradgrind ordered.

His brother gave a mock salute. "Forgive me, gentlemen. Duty calls."

With that, he staggered out of the room and there came a dull thump as he fell up the stairs.

"He worries me," said Fulke Gradgrind, shaking his head. "Still, young men must have their heads. Now, gentlemen, I trust I have answered your questions. We are not wealthy, Mr Holmes, and I would be the first to admit that the money from the tontine would be most welcome. But I would not endanger my immortal soul for so base a consideration. Nor would my brother, for all his bluster."

Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Then all that remains is for us to pay our compliments to your uncle and take our leave."

Again, that sickly hue came to the man's face. "You wish… to _see_ him?"

"Indeed. It would be most rude of us to leave without—"

"My uncle is a very sick man," he interjected. "We are his only family and he ours."

"I mean him no harm, Mr Gradgrind. If he is as ill as you say, then perhaps my friend, Dr Watson, may be of assistance to him."

Gradgrind cast a worried glance in my direction. "My uncle distrusts doctors. He has done so all his life. However," he said, "your offer is much appreciated. I also understand the reason behind it. I may be provincial in outlook, but I am not ignorant as to your motives. You wish to see how ill he is, so that you may report back to Mr Mycroft Holmes that he is near to winning the tontine."

Holmes did not deny this. Gradgrind nodded, satisfied that his supposition had been correct, and seemed to make up his mind.

"Very well. Then see him you shall. But not you, Mr Holmes. Dr Watson may accompany me upstairs to his bedroom, but I would prefer that you stay well away from my uncle, sir. I trust you understand."

"Of course," said Holmes. He caught my arm before I could leave. "Do not touch him, Watson. Keep your distance."

"If you insist. Why?"

"It is well to be cautious."

He released my sleeve and I was able to follow Gradgrind out into the hall. We proceeded up stairs that creaked with every step we took to a landing where the wallpaper was peeling at the top and the carpet had been worn threadbare. Putting a finger to his lips, Fulke Gradgrind invited me into a darkened room. The curtains were pulled, permitting only a thin beam of light to paint a golden stripe across the faded carpet. I could just make out the swaying figure of Freddy Gradgrind trying to bathe the hands of a man who lay prone in the bed. He looked at me askance and mouthed his protest to his brother.

"Dr Watson wishes only to see our uncle, Frederick," whispered his brother.

The young man glared at me, picked up the wash bowl and left. Fulke Gradgrind leaned over the figure in the bed and spoke slowly.

"This is Dr Watson, Uncle," said he. "Come to see how you are."

From the man there came a groaning sound as the nephew drew back a respectful distance. Even from where I stood at the foot of the bed, I could hear the effort which the invalid put into every laboured breath. His mouth hung open and a clear dribble of liquid was escaping down one side of his mouth into a sparse beard. A hand where the leathery skin had sunk deep between the bones raised a few inches from the coverlet and reached out to me.

It seemed to me that he wished to communicate. I drew nearer and leaned over him, trying to make sense of the gasps and wheezes that were issuing from between his cracked lips. A few blackened teeth showed in the recesses of his gaping mouth, hung with laces of blood-flecked saliva. His eyes, unfocused behind the slits of his eyelids, slowly came to rest upon me.

"John," he moaned, a little louder and clearer. "John."

I was taught that such familiarity between patient and doctor is to be avoided at all costs. There is something about the immediacy of death, however, that strips us of convention and social mores. I have had dying men cling to me, made me give assurances to carry messages home to loved ones, and heard my name as the last word to pass their lips. Theory is all well and good in the classroom, but at the bedside of the dying it has little practical application.

Here, in a darkened room on a warm June day, a dying man, illness aging his decayed face so that he appeared older than his forty-three years, was confused and afraid enough to seek comfort from a stranger. His jaw still moved, the words lost as his lungs rattled with every breath he took, and I was forced to bring my ear near to his mouth to hear what he was trying to say.

A hand caught at my tie and held me in its enfeebled grasp. "John," he repeated.

"I am here, Reverend Gradgrind," I said. "What is it you wish to tell me?"

"My name…" he murmured. His eyes rolled until the whites were visible. The hand slid from my neck and fell limply back onto the sheets.

I straightened up, arranged the old man's hands neatly across his chest and turned to the nephew. To my surprise, he was not there. I went to the door and found Fulke Gradgrind outside on the landing, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.

"Forgive me," said he. "It grieves me to see uncle like this."

"He is gravely ill," I replied.

Gradgrind gave me a helpless look. "We do not know what to do. He came back from his work in Africa so. We implored him to see a doctor, but he would not. He became a recluse and has never left this house since his return. His friends called at first, but he shunned them all. He said he knew what afflicted him, that it was a judgement upon him."

"You should get a physician to attend him. His condition could be made more comfortable."

"Is the end very near?"

"If you would permit me to examine him—"

"No!" Gradgrind interjected. "That is, uncle made me swear upon the Bible that I would not expose him to such an indignity."

Since he was adamant, there was little point pursuing the matter. I joined Holmes downstairs and we made our farewells. Out in the bright afternoon, I felt glad for the warmth of sunlight upon my face as we walked back to the station and the train which would take us far away from the sickroom of the dying Reverend Gradgrind.

"He was ill, I take it?" Holmes asked. "Not faking?"

"I believe I can tell when a man is feigning serious illness," I retorted, a little riled at having my professional judgement called into question.

"Do not take umbrage, Watson. I merely question the necessity for the darkened room."

"The man's eyes were sensitive. Besides, there was enough light for me to know a sick man when I see one."

Holmes sniffed disconsolately. "Not that it matters. Many a man has planned another's destruction from the comfort of his own bed."

"Hardly comfort." I glanced at him, noting that his demeanour seemed still preoccupied. "Are you satisfied now, as to the Gradgrinds' innocence?"

"They have excellent alibis," said Holmes. "That means nothing. They could have involved another in their schemes. Well, I dare say we have done what we could. Mycroft shall have to stay on his guard. I might suggest that he removes himself from London for a few days. Not that I have any faith in his agreeing."

With Holmes continuing in such a vein, we arrived at the station in plenty of time to catch our homeward train. He fell to brooding while we took coffee in the adjoining tea rooms and watched the steaming cup cool to nothing before tasting it and declaring that it was cold. With five minutes to spare, we took our place on the platform and waited for the tell-tale puffs of smoke to rise above the trees that would mark the imminent arrival of our train.

A considerable crowd of people were present at the station that day. Young ladies on the arms of their beaus jostled with rosy-cheeked boys in sailor suits and petticoated girls with their hands tightly grasped by their parents. A sharp clatter of hooves beyond the gate told of yet more travellers, although I did not expect it to be a bevy of constables led by a stout, full-bellied inspector with a pipe lodged in the corner of his mouth. They glanced up and down the platform, and the inspector caught my eye.

The next I knew, they were heading briskly in our direction. The inspector paused before us and tugged thoughtfully at his pipe.

"Would you two gentlemen be a Mr Holmes and a Dr Watson?" said he, almost too affably.

"We answer to those names," said Holmes. "And you are?"

"Inspector Allen," said the detective. "Mine is the regrettable, though necessary duty of asking you both to delay your journey and accompany me to the station."

"Why?"

"On account of a recent death in these parts, sir. I believe you are acquainted with the Reverend Uriah Gradgrind?"

I felt my blood run cold. "He is dead?"

"Oh, yes, quite dead. And it happened not ten minutes after you left him, sir."

* * *

_Something tells me Dr Watson won't be going to London Zoo after all. You should have listened to big brother, Mr Holmes. _

_Continued in Chapter Six!_


	6. Chapter Six

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter Six**

I watched the light fade from the uncomfortable surroundings of a dingy police cell as day crept into night. Stripped of my watch and few possessions, I had no sense of time, except that it was passing. With the coming of evening, I knew that the last train back to London would soon be steaming away from Bournemouth station. I doubted I would be on it.

Our apprehension – arrest would be too grand a word for it, since I had yet to be informed of the charge, although I had a fairly good idea of what it would be – had caused something of a stir on the platform that afternoon. I had been too shocked and alarmed by the implication of the inspector's news to offer much resistance. Holmes, however, had held his ground. Making a scene, as Allen explained, was not to be recommended; several burly constables armed with truncheons could persuade the most reluctant detainee to co-operate.

That was the last I had seen of him. I was bustled into the police wagon, brought to the station after a journey conducted in severe silence under the watchful gaze of a sergeant and a constable who never took their eyes from me for a second, and thrust into a cramped and dirty cell. Several hours had passed since then, and I had seen and heard nothing of anyone.

I assumed Holmes had been given the same treatment and imagined him now in similar circumstances. The difference would be that where I was fretting, he would be formulating theories as to what had happened and finding means of exonerating us.

I feared he would be disappointed, however, for there were certain features about the business that I had neglected to tell him concerning my conduct. If they came to light, then my stay in Bournemouth was likely to be a long one.

The rattle of keys in the lock finally put my waiting to an end. The door opened and the portly inspector appeared, accompanied by a constable who took up position in the doorway, a stern and silent sentinel.

"Well, well, Dr Watson," said Allen, regarding me as an uncle might a nephew. Since I doubted there was likely to be any avuncular humour in this interview, I did not return the gesture. "Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Not been too uncomfortable, I trust?"

"Why am I here, Inspector?" I demanded.

I already knew the answer to that, but I wanted to hear it from the man himself.

He tugged thoughtfully at the briar pipe that seemed to be a permanent feature in his mouth. "As I said, Doctor, in the case of a suspicious death, we are duty bound to investigate."

"It was suspicious, then?"

Allen smiled. "I would call an overdose of morphine fairly suspicious, wouldn't you?"

My legs suddenly felt weak. "Morphine?"

"Yes, Doctor. Several grains were found in and around the Reverend Uriah Gradgrind's mouth." His beady eyes twinkled in the half light. "That would make his death murder. Premeditated at that. You see, if the old gent had been smothered or stabbed, there would have been that element of chance. Murder in the heat of the moment. But poison, Doctor, that suggests planning, does it not?"

"Indeed it does."

Allen sniffed and stared hard at me. "Are you in practice, sir?"

"Yes, in Paddington."

"I only ask because you didn't have a medical bag with you."

"No, I left it in London. I had an early call."

"Ah. So you did have it with you before you came to Bournemouth. Interesting." He considered for a moment. "Tell me, sir, would you habitually carry morphine in your medical bag?"

"Certainly."

"Then you would agree that it is something to be found normally about your person."

"Quite so."

"So, you would not have to make any special effort to obtain the drug. It would be readily to hand, as it were. All you would have to do is bring it with you." The smile broadened so that his teeth were visible. "In other words, premeditation."

A chill ran through me. "Are you accusing me, Inspector?"

"Well, Doctor, I can hardly do otherwise. You were with Reverend Gradgrind shortly before his death."

"I didn't poison him."

"The nephew saw you leaning over him."

As I feared, my pity for a dying man that afternoon was telling sorely against me. "He beckoned to me. He was trying to speak."

"What did he say?"

"He called my name several times."

The inspector's brows rose. "He knew you then, sir?"

"No, we had just been introduced."

"Didn't you think it odd that a man you had only just met should choose to address his remarks to _you_, Doctor?"

"He was confused. The man was dying, Inspector."

"Ah, you admit then that he _was_ dying when you were at his side?"

"I admit nothing of the sort. I believed he was dying from the evidence of my own eyes. Reverend Gradgrind was a very sick man. His nephews should confirm that."

Allen extracted his pipe from his mouth and knocked the bowl against the wall. A long silence ensued while he took his time replenishing the tobacco and applying a match.

"There's the rub, Doctor," said he at last. "The nephews say that their uncle had only a slight ague. Mr Fulke Gradgrind said he told you the old man was severely ill so that you would not think it worth your while hastening his end if you thought he had only a short time to live. However, you being a medical man, you must have seen the truth of Gradgrind's condition for yourself. So, you poured morphine down his throat. That is what happened, isn't it, Doctor?"

Any strength I had remaining in my legs promptly deserted me. Had the bed not been there to halt my fall, I should have collapsed to the ground. The horror of it was appalling. I had blundered into a web of lies and intrigue, and it had bound itself about me as tight as any hunter's snare.

"I did not kill him, Inspector," I said, my voice sounding distant and muted.

"So you say, Doctor." A puff of blue smoke escaped his mouth. "I am not entirely unaware of your reputation, sir, or that of your friend. I understand Scotland Yard rate his abilities to some degree as an amateur who has had more than his fair share of luck. On that basis, it strikes me that if the two of you were to commit murder, you would contrive something more artful than this."

I stared at him coldly and treated his remark with the contempt it deserved.

"On the other hand, I have to consider that that is precisely the impression that you wished to give," he went on. "I mean to say, who would believe you both capable of such an obvious act? But a man might be too clever for his own good. The best crimes are the simplest, after all. The problem is that you two gentleman have an excellent motive for wishing the Reverend Gradgrind dead. I speak naturally of this tontine."

"Neither myself or Mr Holmes stand to gain by it."

"No, but his elder brother does."

"As I'm sure Mr Holmes has told you, his brother intends to give the money to various charitable causes."

"Very noble of him. However, I'm sure he would look kindly upon anyone who eased his way into good fortune. I dare say you were hoping for a financial consideration."

"I most certainly was not!"

Indignation got me up on my feet. Blood rushed to my cheeks in a fierce flush of rage that made my ears grow hot.

"Well, we'll never know now," said the inspector. "Dr John Watson, I am arresting you for the wilful murder of Reverend Uriah Gradgrind of Seaview Terrace, Bournemouth. I'm bound to warn you, sir, that anything you may say will appear in evidence against you." He stared unwaveringly at me. "At this juncture, Doctor, you might consider making a clean breast of things. If you tell me, for instance, that you were induced into such an act, I would have good reason for detaining your friend."

"I have nothing to say, Inspector, other than to deny any involvement with Reverend Gradgrind's death."

"Ah." Allen shifted his pipe to the other side of his mouth. "That attitude is very unhelpful, Doctor. A man should always own up to his actions, I believe. No point going to your grave with a guilty conscience."

"I did not kill him."

"So you say. But the evidence against you is clear."

"What evidence?"

"It is circumstantial, I grant you, but even so, it is convincing."

"As when you find a trout in the milk," I murmured, recalling Holmes's similar sentiment.

Allen glanced curiously at me.

"I take it that Mr Holmes has been released without charge?" I asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. He has undertaken to remain in the immediate vicinity in case we have further questions for him. Or unless we are given good reason to arrest him?"

I shook my head. "I have nothing to tell you, Inspector, except that you have made a very grave mistake."

"Then what you do suggest, Doctor? That the Gradgrinds murdered their uncle? For what purpose? It seems to me that they had good cause to keep the old man alive. And most devoted they have been to him too, what with his constitution being weakened by his time out in Africa. You won't find any around here to speak out against them." He gave a brief smile. "Well, the young one is a bit wild, but he's got a good heart. And he can give an account of himself on Monday. Oh, don't think I'd forgotten about that, sir. I conducted the interviews myself and I am always very thorough about these things."

My hopes were raised a notch. "Then you must have seen Reverend Gradgrind when you went to the house. You must have seen how ill he was."

Allen shook his head. "The old gent was sleeping when I called. I did look in on him though. His breathing didn't sound too clever, but he was alive and well. Now, Doctor, where were you on Monday?"

I have always thought it strange how rapidly a situation might change. I had gone from providing Holmes with an alibi to needing one myself. Since I had trouble giving account of my movements on that day, I fell back on my lies of earlier.

"I saw Mr Holmes at lunchtime."

"And before that?"

"I was not in Lancashire, conspiring to kill Mr Outhwaite if that is what you are suggesting."

The inspector chuckled. "Perhaps not. You'll not deny it's a rum coincidence though."

"I knew nothing of the man until today."

"So you say. Well, I must admit that you disappoint me, sir. I had thought that a man of your intelligence and standing would see sense and confess."

"I have _nothing_ to confess."

Allen continued as though he had not heard me. "It always goes better on the family when a guilty plea is entered. A short trial, a short period of confinement, a short walk to the gallows, and then it's all over. A lot tidier than a long, messy affair with all your personal details being dragged over in court. Oh, it can get ugly. This sort of thing is bread and water to the newspapers. Nothing they like better than a murder trial. You're married, aren't you, Doctor?"

I nodded.

"Children, sir? No? Ah, well, that's all to the good. It's always the kiddies who suffer worse by these things. Young widows soon find themselves another husband."

I could not bear to hear any more of this. "Have you quite finished, Inspector?"

He scratched his chin while he gave this due consideration. "Yes, I believe I have. Unless you'd like to tell us what you did with the bottle you brought the morphine in and save us the trouble of having to search for it? I dare say we could manage without it, but it makes the case just that little bit tighter. This being the weekend, the lads won't like working late. Oh, believe me, sir, some of them have nasty tempers. And what with you being here accused of murder, a most accursed crime, why, anything could happen."

I gathered this was the inspector's usual method of extracting information from his prisoners. I was not so easily intimidated, although I could not deny that Allen was very convincing.

"I cannot tell you because I never had such an item in my possession," I said firmly.

"Then how do you account for this, Doctor?" Allen produced a small vial from his pocket. "Forgive me, sir, I was testing you to see your reaction. We found this in the garden of one the houses along the route you would have taken back to the station from the Gradgrind residence. You'll never guess what it contains."

"Morphine," I said.

"However did you guess?" He stowed the vial back in his pocket. "Unfortunately, someone had had the foresight to wipe the glass clean of prints. Who thought of that – you or Mr Holmes?"

"Anyone could have put that there."

"True enough," Allen conceded. "Though there are precious few of the good folk of Bournemouth who have cause to walk about tossing empty poison bottles into other people's gardens." He gave a soft snort of amusement. "Now, sir, why don't you make it easy on yourself and tell us the whole story?"

It was all I could do to shake my head.

Allen sighed. "Well, you can't say I didn't try. I'll be on my way, sir. If you change your mind, the constable here will be on hand to take your confession. If there's anything you want…"

"I want to see Mr Holmes."

"I don't think that's a good idea, do you, Doctor? Besides, he's gone already. Took to his heels over an hour ago after we released him. Looks like you've been abandoned, sir." He turned to the constable. "See that our prisoner is not disturbed," he ordered. "By anyone."

"What about food, sir? Should I send out for fish and chips?"

"I said, by _anyone_," Allen repeated with emphasis. "This isn't a hotel, constable. He can have a cup of tea when he decides to start being reasonable. Until then, give him time to think on his situation, unhampered by the burden of excess digestion." He glanced back at me. "Well, good night to you, Dr Watson. I'll see you bright and early Monday morning at the police court."

* * *

_Poor Watson! He's in serious need of a hug and good lawyer. Where are you, Holmes, when your friend needs you?_

_Continued in Chapter Seven!_


	7. Chapter Seven

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter Seven**

I was very aware of the finality of the inspector's departure, punctuated as it was by the thudding of the door as it closed, sending a reverberation through the confines of the cell.

I sank down onto the bed, with its dirty blanket and lumpy mattress, feeling the bite of its tiny inhabitants as they crawled up and down my arms and legs. Despite the warmth of the evening, I was chilled to the core. My hands were shaking and my teeth chattering. The enormity of my situation was pressing down on me, producing a wild see-saw of emotions that swung from overwhelming despair to the torment of hope.

I did not believe for one minute what Allen had said about Holmes's leaving me to my fate. If I knew him, and I did, he was out there somewhere doing something or other to exonerate me from this charge. Against him was motive, opportunity and a wealth of other points not in my favour. Men had been hanged on a lot less than that before now.

Then, through the noise of my thoughts, came the sound of a familiar voice, hushed, distant and calling my name. For a moment, I was lost as to its point of origin. Then it came again and my sight was directed up to the tiny window with its broken pane of glass set high in the wall above. I scrambled onto the bed and, still unable to reach it, called up, hoping he would hear me.

"Holmes! Is that you?"

"Do keep your voice down, my dear fellow," he returned. "There's a constable on duty around the corner and I would not want to be found consorting with a prisoner."

I stifled a laugh, borne from relief at hearing his voice. "Allen said you'd gone. He refused to let me speak to you."

"Very wise of him too. He intends to divide and conquer. He tells you that I have abandoned you, and me that you are ready to name your confederates in the crime. By keeping us apart, we can neither confer nor confirm the accuracy of his statements. Were we anyone else, no doubt these petty attempts at deception would have worked."

"How long have you been there?" I asked.

"Long enough to hear you near implicate yourself in Reverend Gradgrind's murder. Really, Watson, I did tell you stay away from him."

"He beckoned to me, Holmes. What could I do under the circumstances?"

"What you should have done was to have kept your distance. You have a fatal streak of compassion that will one day be your undoing."

"It seems that day has arrived," I said ruefully.

"I'm afraid that I cannot secure your release," he replied. "At least not yet."

"Then what am I to do? Inspector Allen was badgering me for a confession."

"Yes, I heard. Unless the situation becomes dire, do not do so. Trying to explain to a country magistrate why you committed yourself to rashness would not be the easiest of tasks. I should certainly not wish to call your mental capacities into question for fear it results in your immediate confinement to an asylum for the criminally insane."

"Well, how do you define 'dire'? The conditions in this cell are hardly comfortable."

"But bearable. And, since you have already eaten today, I cannot see you wasting away in the immediate future from the denial of a fish supper and a cup of tea. However, should they find that this has failed to persuade you, tomorrow the situation may become physically distressing—"

"Good heavens," I interjected with alarm. "What are you suggesting?"

"The murderer is a much reviled creature, and justly so. The police have decided on your guilt and they have a strong interest in securing your conviction for the slaying of this harmless and much respected pillar of the community. Inspector Allen has built up an enviable reputation in the past few years for ridding Bournemouth of its criminal element. No one he has sent for trial has ever been acquitted by the courts. I should not imagine that he intends you to start a precedent. Yes, I should say that, sooner or later, he will want a confession."

"He may wish it, but he shall not have it."

I said these words, but my thoughts were drifting back to Allen's insistence that a confession would go easier on me and my family, and his talk of constables with short tempers. I had assumed this was bluff, and mentioned as much to Holmes.

"Let us hope so. Many a man has been broken by the sight of the rack ere he was ever placed upon it. But we are a long way from London, Watson, and Allen's record speaks for itself. I would go further and say that by whatever means he will also insist on your implicating either me or my brother."

I gave a mirthless chuckle. "Which would you prefer?"

"Myself, naturally. The looting of his room Mycroft will eventually forgive, but it would be foolish in the extreme if we were to tempt fate further by tearing him away from the comforts of his club on a spurious charge of murder."

"Oh, it's 'we' now, is it?" I queried. "I believe it was _your_ idea."

The sound of soft laughter drifted up, accompanied by a waft of strong tobacco. I breathed it in, mindful that it had been some hours since my last cigarette.

"As a partner in crime, Watson, your loyalties leave much to be desired," said he. "However, I do not blame you for not wishing to face my brother's ire. Mycroft in ill-humour is not an appealing sight. One way or another, I am sure to feel the rough edge of his tongue, if not for my spate of burglary, then for my choosing to ignore his advice. As much as I hate to admit that he was right, it appears indeed that he was."

"He cannot hold that against you. You did what you thought was in his best interests."

"But not in yours or mine." A note of impatience had crept into his voice. "I have been utterly outmanoeuvred, Watson. Look at the result. You arrested for murder and my good self suspected as your accomplice. No, no, my dear fellow, I will have no consolation. I have handled this business extremely badly. This is what comes of a lack of cases – my brain has become lax through sheer idleness."

"Amongst other things."

"Well, let us not waste time debating that point now. Tell me, how ill, in your professional opinion, was Reverend Gradgrind?"

"Seriously so. From what I could tell, he had lung disease of some sort."

"Consumption?"

"Possibly. He was very emaciated."

"What of his life expectancy?"

"Not long, I should have said."

"Could he have died naturally?"

"Well, yes, but grains of morphine were found in his mouth."

"That in itself is suggestive, but not conclusive."

"How do you mean?"

"The proximity of one to the other does not necessarily mean the man was poisoned."

"Although it would be a reasonable conclusion."

"Which a post-mortem would either confirm or deny." I heard a troubled sigh. "I trust they are proposing to conduct an examination on the body? One would hope that the letter of the 1887 Coroners Act is followed even in these remote parts, although I suspect that the police surgeon has already made up his mind. I wonder if it might be prudent to enlist the help of Scotland Yard to ensure matters are handled according to proper procedures."

So rapid and diverse were the changing threads of the conversation that it took me a moment to understand his meaning. "Are you saying that Gradgrind was _not_ murdered?"

"If he was as ill as you say, he could have expired of his own accord. However, that is a minor point."

"Not to him," I objected.

"Whether poisoned or not, the end result was the same. After we left, his nephews were very busy. With their uncle dead, their next action was to plant that vial. Then they alerted the police."

"But what did they gain by it?"

"Come, come, Watson. I should have thought that was obvious. They have stumbled onto the means of committing the perfect crime, and have placed the blame squarely on you."

"I don't follow, Holmes. If their uncle is dead, then they will not collect the tontine."

"Ah, but you remember what my brother told us," said he, his voice becoming animated. "There is a clause in the tontine that any member found disposing of the others shall have his share revoked. If you are found guilty of murder in the furtherance of my brother's claim, then the tontine will revert to the injured party, the Gradgrinds. It is stunning in its simplicity!"

I saw nothing praiseworthy about it in the slightest, although I dare say my perception was coloured somewhat by my internment in a cell with only a flea-ridden mattress for company and an interminable aching in my neck caused by the unnatural position I had been forced to adopt throughout this conversation.

"Have you told Allen about the clause?" I asked.

"No. I am holding it in reserve."

"Why?"

"It is a capital mistake to show one's hand too early."

"But you are going to tell him?"

"When the time is right. For now, it would do little good. Allen believes the nephews' devotion to their uncle to be beyond reproach. If we could prove that it was not, then we may go some way to convincing him. My hope is that with you arrested, the Gradgrinds may become complacent."

"And I may come to a very nasty end."

"You are safe enough for tonight. Allen has left you to brood on your situation. Should your incarceration continue longer, I concede that you may experience some physical discomfort. As for the Gradgrinds, young Freddie strikes me as the sort who would celebrate this sort of news to excess. Alcohol has loosened the tongues of greater men than him before now."

"Surely his brother would not allow him to take such a risk, not with so much at stake?"

"Well, we shall see, although I admit that it is a possibility I had considered. For all his fusty manner, Fulke Gradgrind struck me as a man of great intelligence. I observed volumes in six different languages amongst those books of his, and all marked with slips of paper where he has been in the habit of referring to them. He was certainly quick-witted enough to capitalise on our sudden appearance."

"It cost a man his life."

"But see the genius of it," Holmes went on. "On the surface of it, the Gradgrinds had every reason _not_ to want their uncle dead. We, on the other hand, have excellent motives. Even the dullest constable would not fail to see that."

"Inspector Allen seems quite sharp to me."

Holmes's grunt of agreement drifted up to my ears. "He has some small spice of ingenuity, I'll give him that. The fact that it is tempered by a degree of ruthlessness makes him a quite refreshing opponent. One wonders how many innocents have languished in that cell of yours as a result of his overzealousness."

His tone, coming on top of something he had said earlier, sewed the seeds of concern in my mind. "You said this was a perfect crime." I hesitated. "You will be able to exonerate me, won't you?"

The slight pause before he answered confirmed my worst fears.

"Let us not deceive ourselves, Watson. It is vastly easier to prove your guilt in this case than your innocence. The evidence is most compelling, more than enough one might say to convince twelve stolid jurymen."

"Do not spare my feelings," I muttered.

"However," he went on, "there are always flaws, even in the best-laid of schemes. Perfection is the reserve of the divine. The Gradgrinds must have erred; to us falls the task of uncovering the truth of their guilt. Are you equal to the challenge?"

"Do I have any choice?"

"Then we both have a long night ahead of us. You can start by telling me everything that happened after you went upstairs. Since that is the only time you left my side, I have to hope that something occurred which will be of material use to us."

I cast my mind back to the events of the afternoon. "Fulke Gradgrind showed me into his uncle's bedroom. The other brother, Freddie, was there, washing the old man's hands."

"Did that not strike you as odd, considering his hostile remarks of earlier?"

"I saw nothing untoward, if that is what you mean. He was most diligent in his care and attention. Indeed, he seemed quite alarmed when his brother permitted me to enter the room."

"As any caring relative would," Holmes mused. "Go on."

"The younger brother left. Fulke Gradgrind introduced me to his uncle and the old man called to me."

"His words, Watson. What were his _exact_ words?"

"Well, he called my name, several times. A lot of what he was trying to say was lost. He had trouble speaking. I asked him what he wanted. He mumbled something about 'my name'."

"_Your_ name? Think, my dear fellow, this could be vitally important."

I tried to recall our conversation. "No, he said, "my name". He might have called me John again, I don't—"

"He called you by your Christian name?" Holmes interrupted, his tone raising a pitch.

I gathered this was something of note, although what it indicated and why it had caused such excitement failed me.

"Why, yes."

"How did he know it?"

"Fulke must have mentioned it."

"Did he? Is it usual, would you say, for relative strangers to address you so informally?"

"It depends. Patients become confused. I've been called 'Aunt Mabel' before now."

A long silence ensued. The strain in the back of my neck had extended down my back, so that now I was in great pain and longed to relinquish my contorted position. I waited in patience, however, since I gathered that Holmes had seen some significance in all this that had escaped me. If so, I did not wish to disturb the train of his thoughts.

Finally, when he spoke, it was to ask me yet another question.

"Since you had the privilege of so close an audience with the ailing gentleman, do you think you would be able to describe him in minute detail?"

"I'll try."

"Good. Begin with his eyes."

"Faded blue, the colour of cornflowers."

"Just the facts, Watson. Leave the poetry for your journals. What else?"

"Bloodshot. And quite yellow."

"A curious combination of colours. What of his teeth?"

"He had few left. What he did have were stained with tobacco."

"He sounds a charming fellow," Holmes said. "Go on."

"I remember that his skin was quite leathery, as though he had been outdoors a great deal."

"Now that is an excellent observation, and entirely in accord with one who had spent a good deal of time in a hot country. Was this just the skin of his face?"

The decaying figure on the bed loomed large in my mind. I thought back to the hand that had reached out to me, of the sleeve that had fallen from the emaciated arm and the collar of his night shirt, slightly open to reveal the withered flesh beneath.

"It appeared to extend to his chest. His hands and arms also showed traces of tanning."

"Ah, his hands. Describe them."

"Feeble. Bony. The nails were greatly discoloured."

"Indeed. Was there a smear of dirt beneath them, did you notice?"

"Now you come to mention it, yes. It appeared to be ingrained."

A chuckle sounded from beyond the walls of my cell. "Well, well, that is quite interesting."

"I hope it is a good deal more than that," I returned. "I should not like stay here for any length of time, Holmes. Between the fleas and the threats, I doubt there will be much left of me." I had pulled back my sleeve to better scratch at my irritated flesh. A distant memory floated back to me of another arm, also adorned with red marks. "Strange," I said. "Now I come to think of it, I saw similar flea bites on Reverend Gradgrind."

"As one might expect," came Holmes's enigmatic reply. I heard the crunch of undergrowth as he withdrew from the proximity of the wall. "Well, Watson, I must leave you to your captivity for the night. Our conversation has been most instructive."

"Then you're going to confront the Gradgrinds?"

"No. I'm going to have soup."

Of all he could have said, this was perhaps the most unexpected. "Soup?" I echoed

"Yes. Soup, soap and salvation, in that order. Chin up, my dear fellow. I hope to see you in the morning with better news. You may keep that appointment with the Forrester children at the Zoo yet!"

* * *

_I think everyone got the clue in the last chapter. But what does it mean? And where is Holmes going? Why the sudden obsession with soup?_

_Continued in Chapter Eight!_


	8. Chapter Eight

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter Eight**

I awoke, stiff and confused, to daylight and the sound of keys rattling in an iron lock. When I had fallen asleep, I could not say. Bereft of my time-keeper, I had known only that the night had seemed eternal, the breeding ground for nightmare scenarios that were given birth by my imagination and played out on the indistinct surface of the cell ceiling.

All I knew was that my sleep had not been a long one, for I felt wretched and muddle-headed, hardly fit to face whatever was coming through the opening door.

I was sensible enough to realise that day had come and Holmes had not. I trusted that he had had a better night, although his absence suggested otherwise. He had spoken of hopes for glad tidings on the morrow; for my part, I hoped this had not meant he had gone away with the intention of committing a felony. One burglary a day in a good cause should be enough for any man, but Holmes had been too interested in the Gradgrinds for me to believe that he was simply going for a frugal meal of soup.

My stomach lurched at the thought of his being caught in the act. I could see the villainous nephews taking great delight in handing their illustrious burglar over to the police and protesting to all and sundry, journalists included, how much more were they sinned against than sinning. Scandal and disgrace would follow, his professional judgement and integrity called into question, the public humiliation of a trial, and finally internment amongst the ranks of those very criminals that he had helped placed there.

Worst of all, although he would never admit such a thing, it would be because of me. It did not bear thinking about.

For such reasons, that opening door produced no great swell of hope in my breast. I rose, painfully aware of the ache of my dry throat and the dizziness and throbbing headache caused by incipient dehydration, and determined to face bad news on my feet.

I expected a constable, a harbinger of doom. What I got was the wiry and disgruntled person of Inspector Lestrade.

I confess that I must have stared at him asininely. In my defence, I could do little else. This turn of events had taken me completely aback.

If I was stunned into inanity, Lestrade was not. He gave me a quick critical appraisal, which caused his frown to deepen, and he turned to the uniformed policeman who was hovering behind him like an anxious puppy.

"Is this how you usually treat your prisoners, constable?" he asked crisply.

"Inspector Allen, sir, he said—"

"Oh, did he now?"

He had adopted that superior tone which I knew so well, allied with his peculiar manner of tilting back his head to look down his nose at the subject of his berating, no mean feat in itself for a man of his limited height. With Holmes, such a tactic brought out the worst in him, producing teeth-grinding annoyance and a retaliatory display of his formidable intellect.

Applied to an over-awed junior officer, however, it had the effect of annihilation.

With a choice few words, the man had been stripped of his bullishness and reduced to a flustered state. It was a rare thing to witness. My admiration for the inspector rose appreciably.

"Well, constable," he went on, "until Inspector Allen gets here, I'll be in charge. Go and make the tea, and mind you bring one for Dr Watson here. He looks like he could do with a hot cup of char."

"For the prisoner, sir?" the constable queried uncertainly. "But Inspector Allen—"

"Isn't here," Lestrade said firmly. "Listen, son, I haven't had much sleep and I was up this morning before the sun was. If you want to go far in your profession, I suggest you learn how to take orders. Now, do we understand each other?"

"Yes, sir," said he. "I'll go and put the kettle on."

"You do that. Three sugars for me. And a biscuit if you've got one. I missed breakfast."

With that command ringing in his ears, the constable left. Lestrade pushed the door to after first checking to see that we were alone.

"Heaven preserve us from small town country coppers," he muttered. "They do give themselves some real airs and graces in these tuppenny-ha'penny places. They should try my job if they want to know what real policing is about. That'd teach them there's more to crime than clipping a few boys around the ears." He gave a sardonic snort and his gaze turned to me. "Well, now, Dr Watson, this is a fine old business. This is the last place I'd expect to find you."

"As I you, Inspector." I shook his offered hand warmly. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a wire at the crack of dawn from Mr Holmes saying you'd got yourself into a spot of bother and would I mind coming down to get you out of it."

I gathered this was the general thrust of the message rather than verbatim, knowing that Holmes would never willingly admit to Lestrade of all people that he actually _needed_ his help. No doubt it had been couched in the vaguest of terms. However, it would take no great feat of genius to reason that a direct appeal, on a Sunday of all days, and my being 'in a spot of bother' as Lestrade put it, did not equate to the happiest of situations.

"So, here I am," said he, drawing a copious handkerchief out of his pocket to blow his nose. "Don't mind me asking, Doctor, but what exactly is this all about? The constable said something about a charge of wilful murder."

"Yes," I replied. "They believe I had some part in the death of an elderly gentleman of these parts, Reverend Uriah Gradgrind."

Lestrade's brow creased in an effort of remembrance. "Gradgrind. Now where have I heard that name before? Ah, yes, in connection with that tontine business."

"You heard about that?"

"Oh, yes, Doctor. Had quite a tussle about it down at the Yard. We had to draw straws in the end to see who was going to go and ask Mr Holmes his whereabouts on the day that fellow went up with his cannon. Jones lost." He grinned. "How did he take it?"

"Well, considering."

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully. "They say there's a good deal of money at stake. Mr Holmes's brother'll be a very rich man… so they say," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"I understand he intends to give it away, Inspector."

"Probably wise in the circumstances. That sort of money gives people unhealthy ideas. Before you know it, you're in no end of trouble." He gave me an uneasy smile. "Is he… is he going to give _all_ of it away?"

I had the distinct impression that there was more to his question than the usual demands of polite interest. It seemed to me that he had some special reason for asking and I was curious enough to ask what it was.

"Well, Doctor," said he, "it's just that there's been some talk that Mr Mycroft Holmes might display largesse and his brother will… _retire_ on the proceeds."

From the expectant look in his eye, I would have wagered that he did not necessarily think this a bad thing. Granted, Holmes had been a thorn in the side of the official force on many occasions. Considering that he gave them the lion's share of the credit, I had always believed that they regarded him more as a tolerable asset rather than a nuisance.

"I don't think any amount of money would persuade him to do that," I said. "You'll not get rid of him that easy, Inspector."

The remark was unworthy of me, mistaken as I was, for Lestrade visibly bridled.

"Did I say such a thing?" said he. "No, indeed. He's not the easiest man to work with, but I'll not deny Mr Holmes has been of some use to the force once or twice in the past."

By my calculation, it was rather more than that, but I let it pass, having no wish to pour salt onto already open wounds.

"Yes, there'd be a few of us who'd be sorry to see him go down at the Yard," Lestrade went on, watching me closely for my reaction. "Well, most of the lads actually, but don't tell him I told you that."

I nodded. Holmes's egotism was insufferable enough without my compounding it by mentioning this admission. Nor was I that callous that I would happily embarrass a man who had no small measure of pride himself. In this curious game the pair of them played, appearance mattered less than the truths they admitted in private.

"My lips are sealed, Inspector."

Lestrade acknowledged this with a satisfied grunt. "So," said he slowly, "I suppose Mr Holmes has already formed an opinion about the case?"

"He hasn't told you?"

He shook his head. "All his wire said was that I should 'wait to hear from him'. This won't take too long, I trust?"

For the second time that morning, I was aware that I was not in possession of the full facts. Lestrade had the air of man who had found a farthing only to be given a bill for a shilling. He carried his misery squarely about his person, as one with troubles at home. Having been married for some years myself, I knew that look.

"Your wife wasn't too pleased at your coming here today, I take it," I observed.

Lestrade looked startled. "Why, however did you…" He checked himself. "Ah, that'd be Mr Holmes's influence, of course."

"No, but it is Sunday."

"Yes, Sunday," he mused. "She had _plans_."

Again, that was an inflection with which I was entirely familiar.

"In fact, I'm not entirely sure that she believed me about this case," he confided unhappily. "'Oh, Mr Holmes again, is it?' said she. I'm sure she thinks I've got a fancy woman and this is an excuse to get away. Anyhow, she's coming down on the twelve o'clock train and bringing the children with her. She _says_ she'd like a day at the seaside, but I think there's more to it than that."

I was sorry to hear him say this. Patience can be tested too many times even in the most forgiving of women. I wondered what my own dear Mary would have to say about this unfortunate situation. I had thought it best not to worry her, but now I conceded that I might have been wrong. She would think when I had not returned last night that I had spent the night at Baker Street. She was liable to become concerned by my failure to appear at breakfast and by afternoon be quite beside herself with worry, to say nothing about the disappointment caused to the Forrester children.

Wrongful arrest was a good enough reason for delay in my book, but I could not help feeling that she would have a few choice words for me when I did get home. I could well see myself being exiled to the spare bedroom for the foreseeable future.

As unhappy as that prospect was, a more immediate concern was whether my liberation from a police cell in Bournemouth was forthcoming. The constable returned with tea – weak and tasting of lead pencils, but welcome relief to a thirsty man – and made vague assurances that Allen was on his way. When was debateable, for we were informed that he considered Sunday sacrosanct and suffered no disturbances.

Lestrade's raised eyebrows told me what he thought of that. "Nice work if you can get it, eh, Doctor?" said he without a trace of humour.

As it transpired, we did not have long to wait. I was barely halfway through my tea when hurried footsteps and a stentorian bellowing resounded in the corridor outside. This, the herald of the red-faced Inspector Allen, was followed by the appearance of the man himself, who flung back the door and burst into the cell with the force and fury of an enraged bull.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. His bulging eyes turned from me to the other occupant of the cell. "Who the devil are you?"

Lestrade regarded him with equanimity. "Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard." He looked Allen up and down. "And you are?"

The best insults are the simplest. Allen's face turned an unattractive shade of puce at this curt dismissal.

"You have no authority here," he retorted. "This is _my_ case. We don't need no London meddlers poking their noses in."

"Oh, I've no intention of meddling," said Lestrade good-naturedly. "But we're all on the same side, aren't we? I know the Chief of Police is keen on cross-county co-operation. I'm sure he'd be glad to hear that you were giving the Yard your _full_ assistance."

Allen's eyes narrowed. "And what exactly _is_ your interest, Inspector?"

"I was asked by Mr Sherlock Holmes to look into this business."

"Mr Holmes?" Allen's tone was incredulous. "The friend and colleague of this _villain_?"

Lestrade tutted. "Now, now, slander's a serious offence. I knew a fellow once lost an ear due to an off-hand remark like that, and all because he told the landlord that his steak pie had hairs in it."

Had I not been the subject of their conversation, I should have quite enjoyed this exchange. The more annoyed Allen became, the more superior was his antagonist. Lestrade had the upper hand in this argument and knew it, tormenting his fellow inspector as a fly to a horse.

"This man," blustered Allen, gesturing wildly at me, "has committed foul murder. One of the most respected members of the community lies dead at his hand! And you, you London upstart, give him _tea_?"

With a swift movement that took me quite by surprise, the cup was dashed from my hand. The remains of my tea splashed over my trousers and Lestrade's coat. Not hot enough to burn, but still imbued with that unpleasant sensation of warm liquid seeping into one's clothing that made me want to curse the inspector for his actions.

Whatever his feelings about this, Lestrade remained remarkably composed. "Shame that," said he absently. "Not a bad cup of tea, by all accounts."

"I want a confession from this man," Allen said hotly. "I'm not holding a garden party!"

"Feel like obliging, Doctor?" I shook my head. "Thought not. Listen, Allen, you've got the wrong man banged up here," said Lestrade. "I've had the pleasure of working with Dr Watson a few times in the past. He could no more murder some old parson than…" He eyed his fellow officer critically. "Well, than you could, Inspector."

"Do you dare to suggest—"

Lestrade held up his hand. "I'm not suggesting," he said firmly. "I'm _telling_ you, Inspector Allen, that you're barking up the wrong tree. Even if I didn't know Dr Watson, Mr Holmes's interest would be enough to lead me to question the facts in this case. I don't say he's always right, but I'm sure he won't mind me saying that he has an uncanny knack for sniffing this sort of thing out."

A sneer settled on Allen's face. "You may need the assistance of amateurs in London, Lestrade, but here in Bournemouth, we prefer to rely on our own wits."

Further discussion was negated when a knock sounded on the door and the constable entered, bearing a wire for Lestrade. He perused it quickly and smiled.

"Would you be willing to stake your reputation on your wits over Mr Holmes's, Allen?" he asked.

"I most certainly would."

"Then you won't mind accompanying me to the Gradgrinds' residence. Mr Holmes has asked us to meet him there. I dare say he's got some theory about the case, but you won't be worried about that, will you, Inspector?"

The first tenuous glimmer of uncertainty showed in Allen's eyes. "Why should I agree to this farce?"

"Don't you want to see Mr Holmes proved wrong? After all, if you're so certain, you have nothing to lose by humouring him."

Allen's expression curdled with dislike. "I _am_ certain," he stated. "Very well, we will hear what Mr Holmes has to say. And then I shall take great pleasure in arresting him for wasting police time."

Lestrade hesitated. "I'd like Dr Watson to come with us."

"Certainly not!"

"Come now, Inspector, I've often found that when a criminal is confronted with the truth of his crime, he's much more accommodating. And you do want your confession, don't you?"

Allen growled under his breath. "Bring him if you must. Constable, get the cuffs on the prisoner. I don't want him escaping."

"That won't be necessary," said Lestrade, much to my relief. "I'll vouch for him." He ushered me out and escorted me from the cell. "You aren't planning on making a dash for it, are you, Doctor?" said he, while we waited for a cab outside. "Only I've had that happen before. We caught him again, but they don't let you forget that sort of thing."

"I wouldn't do that to you," I said. "And thank you. I thought you handled that well."

He grunted. "You have to know how to deal with these officious types. I only hope Mr Holmes knows what he's doing. I'd like to see that Allen taken down a peg or two!"

* * *

_Yes, I think we all would like to see that. Don't worry, Lestrade, I'm sure Mr Holmes has a surprise in store for all concerned!_

_Continued in Chapter Nine!_


	9. Chapter Nine

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter Nine**

We arrived at the Gradgrinds' residence after a journey that seemed to be a good deal longer than it actually was.

A frosty silence pervaded, in accord with the disgruntled expressions on the faces of my fellow passengers. Our travelling conditions did not help matters – I was sandwiched between two portly constables in a growler where the windows would not open to ease the stifling heat of the interior. Opposite me sat Inspector Allen, stony-face and brooding, alternating his baleful glare between myself and Lestrade, who was beside him.

How that man could stare! I defy anyone not to feel uncomfortable beneath so intense a gaze. I tried not to look at him, but every time I did, it was to find that his eyes were fixed on me, unblinking and accusing, as though he was trying to plumb the very depths of my soul to pull my sins into the light of day.

I was heartily glad when finally we arrived at our destination; had I been forced to endure the Inspector's special attention for much longer, I was sure I would have felt guilty enough to confess to anything.

We appeared to be the first to arrive, but as we alighted, another cab coming from the opposite direction slowed to a halt behind ours. Holmes stepped out and then offered his hand to his fellow passenger. A neat middle-aged lady, respectably dressed in black lace and a straw bonnet, emerged from the interior and stood blinking in the sunlight on the pavement, smiling demurely at my friend and nodding as he spoke unheard words to her.

Lestrade glanced at me, and I read some small spice of amusement in that look. I had no explanation for this unexpected turn, except to trust that this lady formed part of Holmes's plan to demonstrate my innocence in the death of Uriah Gradgrind. In what manner was a question to which only he knew the answer.

Presently, when he did join us, he was bright of eye and effusive of manner, a far cry from his reticence of the night before. I gathered from this that he had spent a profitable evening, and the fleeting smile that he cast in my direction did more than any words to reassure me that he had mastery of the situation.

"Inspector Lestrade," said he, offering his hand. "Good of you to come."

The detective smiled. "There's not many for whom I'd forsake my Sunday lie-in, Mr Holmes, but your telegram had me intrigued."

"And your sacrifice shall indeed prove worthwhile, Lestrade. Ah, Inspector Allen, I perceive you are as doubtful of my motives as ever."

"I had a mind to humour you, Mr Holmes," said Allen sharply. "If only to hear what fool theories you had conjured up in a vain attempt to convince us that you and your fellow conspirator here didn't murder Reverend Gradgrind."

Holmes did not rise to this provocation. Instead, he adopted his most gracious manner. "I can state with the clearest of consciences that neither myself nor Dr Watson had any hand in Gradgrind's death."

Allen snorted with disdain.

"Because," Holmes went on, "I do not believe that the gentleman in question lies dead in his coffin."

I stared at him in amazement, taken aback by this extraordinary pronouncement, quite the last thing I had expected him to say.

Since neither Lestrade nor I had the power of speech, it was left to the inspector to put our thoughts into words.

"You don't—" Allen's face went a queer shade of crimson. "What nonsense is this? Now, look here, Mr Holmes, they may be mildly amused by tomfoolery such as this in London, but here in Bournemouth we take a dim view of such behaviour. Mr Banbury, our local magistrate, doesn't look kindly on those who waste police time."

Holmes held up his hand. "You didn't let me finish, Inspector. You have arrested Dr Watson on a charge of wilful murder and have your suspicions concerning myself, and yet the evidence, if any, against us is slight. Why, Inspector Allen, who has had sight of the body to prove that murder has indeed been committed?"

"I saw him with my own eyes. I know a corpse when I see one. He was as dead as yesterday and stiff as a board."

"Of that I would willingly take your word, under normal circumstances. But in a capital offence, one must be sure. The evidence must be tested. Accordingly, I visited the morgue this morning and found that the remains of Reverend Gradgrind were nowhere to be found. I understand from the vicar of St John's, as a courtesy to the family, that they intend to bury him this afternoon."

"They're not hanging about, are they?" said Lestrade. "That's mighty unusual, wouldn't you agree, Inspector Allen?"

The detective glowered at him, then thought better of it. "It is a little out of the ordinary, yes."

"Even for Bournemouth on a hot summer's day," said Holmes. "Would it be too much to ask that I be allowed to view the body, Inspector, to satisfy my own curiosity? I believe the reverend gentleman is lying in state in the house."

"But you said you didn't think him dead," said Lestrade. "Do you mean they have an empty coffin in there?"

"It would be hard to confirm or deny that theory unless we are permitted to view the remains for ourselves."

"Surely the police surgeon—"

"Did not perform a full post-mortem, at the request of the family."

Lestrade's eyes grew wide. "No post-mortem? On a man believed murdered?"

"The police surgeon discharged the body last night having carried out what can only be described as a superficial examination. By the by, Inspector, that alone should be enough for the case you have built against Dr Watson to fall at the first hurdle. A good barrister, even a bad one, would tear your evidence to pieces." He smiled grimly. "Which is why you needed a confession from one or both of us to strengthen your case."

"I was satisfied with the police surgeon's findings," said the inspector, sticking out his chin in defiance of my friend's criticisms. "Morphine was found in Gradgrind's blood, which, coupled with the grains found around the mouth, is more than enough evidence to have this friend of yours convicted."

"The gentleman was gravely ill," said Holmes. "I should have been surprised if morphine was _not_ found in his blood. All the same, I should like to see those tests replicated by an independent expert. And by someone who can confirm that life is indeed extinct."

"Are you saying Gradgrind was still alive?" asked Lestrade, thoroughly aghast. "That would be gross incompetence on the part of the police surgeon if he missed that."

"The number of people buried alive because they had fallen into a state of deep unconsciousness and death was assumed rather than proved is a well attested fact."

"Even so—"

"I understand that a Dr Conway undertakes your post-mortems," Holmes said to Allen. "Several of the staff at the morgue mentioned that he is extremely myopic."

"He wears glasses, yes."

"And that he likes his drink."

"Well, yes. But no more than most."

"All the same, it was this failing, was it not, that necessitated his leaving general practice. I understand there were several incidents of misdiagnosis?"

"Yes, but only minor things. After that, it was felt he was safer dealing with the dead."

Holmes smiled. "Then I think we are on fairly safe ground in questioning his judgement. Yes, Inspector Allen, more than ever, I should like to see the body of this allegedly deceased gentleman."

"Come to that, so would I," said Lestrade. "In fact, I _insist_ upon it."

That hard, hateful look returned to Allen's eyes. Such was the loathing in his expression that I was eternally glad that I was not alone with the man. Against overwhelming opposition, however, he was forced to accede to our request.

"Very well," said he. "But I'll have no murderer set foot inside a house where the victim lies under the same roof. Inspector Lestrade can view the body. You, Mr Holmes, and the prisoner can wait out here."

"And take the risk that I will assist my accomplice to escape?" Holmes suggested. "This may be nothing but an elaborate deception on my part, Inspector, intended to draw you away."

A nerve began to twitch in Allen's jaw. "All of you, come with me," he barked. "And then after we're done with this ridiculous charade, you can expect to be arrested, Mr Holmes!"

With a final glare, he strode up to the Gradgrinds' front door. At an upstairs window, a curtain twitched back into place as the inspector applied himself to the bell.

"My, my, what a thoroughly unpleasant fellow," Holmes remarked, watching as the door opened and the spare figure of Fulke Gradgrind appeared on the threshold. There was a brief conversation, during which Allen made several derogatory gestures in our direction, and finally Gradgrind was compelled to admit us.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Mr Holmes," Lestrade muttered. "That Allen means what he says."

"Yes, I do not doubt it. Watson, are you quite well?"

"Not particularly. I had a most uncomfortable night. Did you enjoy your soup?"

"Yes, it was very good. Oxtail, followed by bread and butter. How are the fleas?"

"Biting and itchy."

"Well, be a good fellow and keep them to yourself. Now, gentleman, shall we? The Gradgrinds await."

Holmes paused to offer his arm to his mysterious lady companion and, as soon as she had joined us, together our party started up the steps.

As before, we passed from light into the darkness of the gloomy interior. Fulke Gradgrind, at his post by the door, stared at us at we filed past, and at me in particular, leaving me feeling even more embarrassed than ever and wishing that Holmes could have devised some other method of proving my innocence than subjecting me to a confrontation with my accuser.

I fancied, however, that the feeling was mutual – as uncomfortable as I felt, Gradgrind appeared equally so. His eyes were quick to dart from face to face and several times I noticed him swallowing, in the manner of a man whose mouth has suddenly become dry. As outrageous as Holmes's suggestion seemed, Gradgrind's reaction convinced me more than ever that the uncle was very much alive.

One constable had remained at the door, but even so we still managed to crowd the small sitting room. An attempt had been made to clear away the clutter, and the plethora of books that had once adorned every surface had now been heaped by the bookcases. In the middle of the room on trestles was a coffin draped in black cloth with a simple arrangement of flowers on top.

As cramped as we were, we divested ourselves of our hats as a mark of respect in the presence of the dead. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Holmes's lady companion bow her head and cross herself.

"W-what is this all about?" Fulke Gradgrind wanted to know, regarding our six-strong gathering with some little nervousness. "And why is this person here?" He gestured to me. "He who has killed our dear uncle."

"There's no need to get upset, sir," said Lestrade. His manner was all sympathy, but there was no mistaking its core of underlying firmness. "I'm Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. A few questions have arisen about the death of Uriah Gradgrind and we're hoping you can help us answer them, sir."

"Scotland Yard?" Gradgrind looked appealingly at Inspector Allen. "But I understood that the police had already made their arrest."

"We have, Mr Gradgrind," said Allen. "There's no doubt in my mind, sir."

"If indeed a crime has been committed," said Holmes reasonably. "Well, well, the coffin has been sealed already. How different are country customs. Such unseemly haste would never do in London."

"No disrespect is intended," said Gradgrind. "I merely follow my uncle's wish—"

"As you followed your uncle's wish to turn away friends and neighbours, to shun all contact with the outside world, to keep doctors from his bedside, to disdain servants, even dispensing with the services of an undertaker? Such misanthropy is extreme, wouldn't you agree?"

"He was my uncle, sir. It was not my place to question his motives."

There came the sound of footsteps in the hall and the younger brother, Frederick Gradgrind staggered in, glass in hand. "What in the blazes is all this noise about?" he slurred. "The old fellow not risen from the dead, has he?"

"That is what we intend to discover," said Holmes. "Would you be so kind as to remove the coffin lid, Mr Gradgrind?"

Fulke Gradgrind's face paled and a sheen of sweat took hold upon his brow. "Whatever for? Why must my uncle be violated in such a way? Have you no respect for the dead?"

"I think it would be in your best interests, sir," said Lestrade. "We just want to make sure that your uncle is in there."

"You think he is not?" His nervous laugh, echoing with evident relief, gave me cause for unease. "Well, if that is all, I believe I can satisfy you on that point."

We waited while he fumbled with the screws and, with the help of the constable, lifted the lid free of the coffin. Within, the elderly gentleman I had seen the day before in the bed upstairs lay with his hands folded reverently across his chest. The tortured features had relaxed in death and he faced the next world with the utmost expression of peace and contentment.

It was a sad sight to see, not least because I had hoped, as Holmes had posited, that the coffin would be empty. The result of this would mean a return to my cell for me, and utter humiliation for Holmes, having made one of his rare errors in the worst possible circumstances before so hostile an audience.

"He looks dead to me, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade. He reached out to touch one of the hands. "And he's as cold as the grave, if you'll pardon the expression."

I waited, as did we all, for Holmes to explain this miscalculation on his part. He, however, had other concerns, chief among them being the observance of his lady companion. He was watching her most intently as she leant over the coffin and stared down at the face of the dead man. When she straightened up, I saw her nod and Holmes let out a cry of exultation.

"Well, well, it is as I suspected," said he.

"Is it?" questioned Allen. "It seems to me you've made a mistake, Mr Holmes. I thought you said that Uriah Gradgrind wasn't in this coffin."

"Nor is he, Inspector. Allow me to introduce Miss Mary Abbott," said he, finally giving our mysterious and silent lady a name. "She supervises the distribution of food and clothing to the homeless and needy at the Salvation Army mission here in Bournemouth. Needless to say, she is familiar with many of the regulars. Miss Abbott, do you recognise this gentleman in the coffin?"

"I do indeed, Mr Holmes. The other men called him Jack Frost."

Fulke Gradgrind let out a strangled cry. He staggered back and would have collapsed had not the constable caught him and assisted him to a chair.

"What?" said Inspector Allen. "Do you mean to say that this _isn't_ Uriah Gradgrind? Then where the devil is he?"

"Buried somewhere in Africa. Oh, yes, Inspector, I'm afraid he never made it home to Bournemouth. You'll have to ask Mr Fulke Gradgrind here for the details."

Allen turned on the man, who sat with his head in his hands, moaning softly. "Is this right, sir? Is your uncle dead?"

"Silly old fool got himself eaten by a crocodile," answered Frederick Gradgrind in his place. "Took a canoe up some river and never came back."

"So who is – _was_ Jack Frost?"

Holmes looked to Miss Abbott. "He was an old ex-miner, from up Durham way," she explained. "He said he got laid off after he got the trouble with his chest and couldn't keep up the digging like he used to."

"And then it was that Mr Frost came to the south coast and there proved most convenient for the Gradgrinds' purpose," Holmes continued. "With their uncle dead, they stood to lose a fortune. However, if the news of his death was not made publicly known, then it was the easiest thing in the world to let people go on believing that he was alive. All they needed was to find a substitute and then to wait."

"For what?"

"For natural wastage to take its toll on the other members of the tontine. Oh, yes, Watson, I am now quite convinced that the death of Peter Outhwaite at the hands of his exploding cannon was an accident. As sly as this pair are, not even they could contrive to be in two places at once. No, I believe they were content to wait." His smile faded. "Then we came blundering onto the scene and they saw how they could take advantage of the situation."

"We didn't kill him," wailed Fulke Gradgrind. "He was dying, like the rest of them. He breathed his last before you had left."

"For that, we only have your word," said Holmes. "If you would take my advice, Mr Gradgrind, I should insist upon a full post-mortem. I dare say that those grains of morphine you placed on Mr Frost's mouth to incriminate Dr Watson will now tell against you. Inspector Allen, do you need to hear any more before you release my colleague? He has an appointment in London this afternoon, which I know he is eager to keep."

"I don't see how your charge can hold up, Allen," said Lestrade. "I think you owe this gentleman an apology."

Allen seemed too stunned to formulate an adequate reply. "Let me get this straight," said he. "Gradgrind died, and these two, to keep up the pretence that he was still alive, took in a down-and-out to masquerade as their uncle?"

"Took in several, in fact," said Holmes. "I commend to your attention the six men who now lie in pauper's graves at St John's, having been found dead over the past year at the roadside. The vicar was kind enough to remark in what a godly state of cleanliness these unfortunate gentlemen were found. It is not too difficult to say that they too came under the care of the Gradgrinds, to be replaced when their health failed them. It was a plan of undeniable genius. The tramp's life is not a stable one. They come and go as they please. Such men vanish frequently and being ill and elderly it comes as no surprise to anyone when they are found to have died. Miss Abbott, when did Mr Frost disappear from your mission?"

"That would be about six weeks ago, sir. I remember because he was coughing up blood and the others would have nothing to do with him. Coal miner's lung, I think he said it was."

"He was a foul old devil," sneered Frederick Gradgrind. "He was always coughing and spitting everywhere."

"You do not deny it then, sir?" asked Allen.

"Why should I? It was Fulke's idea to keep bringing these decrepit old fossils home. And they all kept dying, one after the other. So he went out and found another and another. Stinking, flea-ridden, drunken old sots, the lot of them." He drained his glass. "You know what? I'm glad it's come out, because now I'll never have to touch them again."

"They were men, sir," spoke up Miss Abbott. "They deserved your pity, not your contempt."

"We fed them and washed them and clothed them and gave them a decent bed to sleep in," Frederick retorted. "What more could they want?"

"Not to be your prisoners," said Holmes. "You did drug them, to keep them here?"

Fulke Gradgrind nodded. "Only enough to keep them docile. They did keep wanting to leave."

"And for this you used morphine?"

Again he nodded.

Holmes stared pointedly at Allen. "Well, Inspector, are you quite satisfied as to Dr Watson's innocence in this affair?"

A moment of silence passed before he deigned to reply. "You're free to go, sir."

"And not a moment too soon," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, you have a train to catch. Excuse us, gentlemen."

I was fairly hauled from the sitting room and out of the house. Before I had a chance to catch my breath, Holmes had bustled me into the waiting cab and was issuing orders to the driver.

"Wait," I protested. "I don't understand any of this."

"You shall in time, but not now and not here. I would suggest that it is inadvisable for you to linger in case Allen changes his mind."

"Would he?" I said aghast.

Holmes grinned. "That I doubt. An apology would have been welcome, but I dare say we would grow old waiting for such a thing. Now, make haste, my dear fellow. The London train leaves in just under fourteen minutes. You should just make it."

"Aren't you coming with me?"

"I shall return later. There are a few details about the case that I should like to clear up with the assistance of Lestrade, but your part in this sorry affair is at an end."

It occurred to me that I had not discharged all my duties, despite Holmes's insistence on my leaving. "Holmes, you will stay long enough to meet Mrs Lestrade?" His brow creased in puzzlement. "You should. She thinks you're a woman. Or an excuse."

"She thinks what? Now what on earth—"

"Lestrade would never ask, but will you meet her? For the sake of universal harmony?"

I thought I heard him mutter something about married men being under the thumb of their women. "Very well," he conceded. "I am obliged to the inspector for his prompt attendance this morning, so I suppose the least I can do is to be gracious to his good lady wife. As for you, time is pressing, Watson."

"But, Holmes, my things are still at the police station."

"I shall collect them, have no fear."

"I can't go without my watch. And I have no money."

He let out an impatient sigh. "Here, take mine," he said, passing his own pocket watch and chain to me. "How much does it cost to visit the Zoo these days? Five pounds will cover your expenses no doubt." The note was duly pressed into my hand. "Now, will you go? I gave your wife my word that you would be home by noon."

"Mary? You told her what happened?"

"Since it seemed to have slipped your mind, I sent Mrs Watson a telegram last night, informing her that I had regrettably detained you in Bournemouth on business and that you would be home in time to keep your afternoon appointment with the Forrester children." He smiled. "And you think to lecture me on 'universal harmony'."

As usual, he appeared to have thought of everything. "Holmes, thank you for this."

He waved this aside. "Go, or else you will make me out to be a liar. I shall see you in a few days, my dear fellow. Godspeed, Watson!"

* * *

_Well, I'm sure that came as a surprise to no one – you all seemed to have worked out what was going on long ago! But how and what and when and why – oh, those details…_

_Concluded in Chapter Ten!_


	10. Chapter Ten

_**The Case of the Two Survivors**_

**Chapter Ten**

Events transpired to keep us apart for most of the next week, so that it was the following Thursday before I saw Holmes again.

I had noted in that morning's paper that all the London orphanages had cause for celebration after an anonymous donor had presented them with substantial sums of money. I did not have to look far for the source of this generosity; Mycroft Holmes, it seemed, was keeping his word as regards his inheritance. Now there was talk of treats for the children, of visits to the seaside and the Zoo.

The latter I could thoroughly recommend, having made it home in good time that Sunday to appease my wife and not to disappoint the Forrester children. The monkeys proved greatly entertaining, although Mary did comment that my standing scratching at my flea bites was not to be recommended in such close proximity to the bars in case the keepers thought I was an escapee from the cage.

I gathered from that sweetly knowing smile of hers that she knew rather more about my recent misadventures than she was saying. Indeed did I find myself banished to the guest room, though more out of a concern for spreading my unwanted guests rather than any need for contrition on my part. Once I could guarantee that I was free of infestation, thanks to the judicial use of a sharp and painful flea comb, my exile was at an end.

My surgery that Thursday morning was unusually busy, owing to a rash of insanity amongst the younger men of the capital, who, during the prolonged spell of heat of yesterday, had taken to jumping into fountains to cool their fevered brows. Strained knees, the odd broken toe and many blushes were the order of the day, especially from the lad who had to admit to pulling a muscle in a delicate part of his anatomy after falling from one of the statues in Trafalgar Square.

I tended my patients, advised against such high-spirits in public places in the future and awaited my next case. To my utter astonishment, instead of a shame-faced young man or a matronly lady with a summer cold, the maid ushered in none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Good morning, my dear fellow," said he, settling himself in the seat on the other side of my desk. "I must say, your waiting room is a trifle busy this morning."

As pleased as I was to see him, the timing of his visit left much to be desired. "Holmes, what are you doing here?" said I.

"Come to see you, naturally. Whatever was wrong with that young fellow with the limp?"

"I cannot discuss my patients with you. I _am_ working, you do realise that?"

"Yes, I am quite aware of that fact," he said, idly reading upside down the notes I had been making on the last patient's file. "So, that was his problem. Well, well, most unfortunate," he added with a chuckle. "He told me he was worried about removing his trousers. Something about not having clean socks. It seems to me that was the least of his worries."

I quickly covered my notes from his sight. "Holmes, you must realise that you cannot be here now."

"Ah, but I have an appointment."

"No, you don't." I consulted my appointment book. "I'm expecting a Mr E Drebber of Number 3, Lauriston Gardens—" I hesitated. Across the desk, Holmes was regarding me expectantly. "That's you, isn't it?"

He shook a reproving finger. "Has it been so long that you have forgotten our first case?"

"No," I replied, conceding defeat by sitting back in my chair. "As I say, I have been busy."

"So I notice. As to myself, I did not return until yesterday. Bournemouth took up more of my time than I had anticipated. Lestrade's too, although I fancy he and his good lady wife were not too inconvenienced by a prolonged spell at the seaside."

"You did meet her then? I'm glad to hear it."

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "A charming woman. Do you know, Watson, she clasped me most warmly by the hand and said: 'Mr Holmes, I am _so_ glad to have met you.' Whatever did she mean by that, I wonder?"

Having been privy to the reasons for Mrs Lestrade's concerns about her husband's departure so early on a Sunday morning, I was quite able to understand her reaction. Holmes might be baffled, but I at least was glad to hear that the Lestrades' marital harmony had not suffered unduly from his coming so promptly to our assistance that day.

"The motives of women are inscrutable at the best of times," Holmes went on. "Although those of our 'friend', Inspector Allen, less so, wouldn't you say? He has been suspended, by the way, pending further investigation. Lestrade took great pleasure in informing him of that fact. Apparently, concerns had been raised before over some of his other cases, talk of 'coercion'."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Had you remained in that cell much longer, you might have had first-hand experience of the worst of Allen's methods to lay before the official inquiry. Which reminds me."

He delved into his pocket and took out my notecase and watch, which he passed across the table to me. I returned the gesture in restoring his, and felt much better in having my old time keeper back in its rightful place.

"Your five pound note," I said, holding it out to him. "Returned with thanks."

He declined with a small shake of his head. "No, keep it. It was the least I could do for having involved you in such an unfortunate set of circumstances." He drew out a cigarette. "How are the fleas, by the way? That's a particularly large and nasty bite I see on the side of your neck."

I felt a flush rush of blood to my cheeks as I pulled my collar a little higher. "Holmes, you can't smoke in here," I reminded him, tactfully changing the subject. "Mrs Ridley-Thomas is due in ten minutes and, if she smells smoke, she'll lecture me yet again on the value of clean lungs."

He sighed and restored the cigarette to his case. "What a nuisance your patients are, Watson. Ah, well, since our time is short, to business! You are, I take it, desirous to know the outcome of our time in Bournemouth."

"Naturally. But would this not be better over dinner? You are welcome to stay."

"Would that I could. I am duty bound to leave for the Continent this afternoon. But how, my dear fellow, could I leave without satisfying your mind on certain points? You do have questions?"

"Yes, I do. For instance, how did you know that the man who was in that coffin was not Uriah Gradgrind?"

An almost feline smile settled over his features. "I did not, until you told me."

"_I_ told you? I believe I did not."

"Not directly, I admit. Your description of the man you saw in the bed was most illuminating. Do you remember what you told me? Few teeth, stained with tobacco; skin with the texture of leather; ingrained dirt under the nails, and the chronic alcoholism."

"Oh, you mean the yellow eyes – jaundice, indicative of liver disease."

Holmes nodded sagely. "Not attributes one would associate with the average clergyman, I grant you. The bite marks were particularly suggestive."

"Why? Many people have fleas, as my own recent experience amply demonstrates."

"Ah, but you fail to take into account the other factors. Fleas you may have had, but dirt under your nails? Either we are to believe that the gentleman had been out tending his garden that afternoon or that the nephews' care was not as assiduous as it should have been if dirt was still there after the uncle had been confined to his bed for nigh on a year."

"You mean to say that it must have got there more recently."

Holmes nodded. "Six weeks they had him in their care, if we may call it that. Their attention was most superficial if this unfortunate man was left still ridden with lice and dirty of hand after all that time. Not that it mattered to them; he was a mere substitute for their uncle. Who would ever see him but those who knew the truth of his identity?"

"They allowed me to see him."

"Yes, because they saw what lucky chance fate had thrown into their path."

"Fulke Gradgrind could not know that the old man would die."

A hard light came into his steely eyes. "Had he not at the opportune moment, Watson, I believe that they would have speeded him on his way. Such would have been his fate had my brother died. You heard the younger brother – he wanted an end to the situation. Oh, they may have been content to wait at first, but with just one member of the tontine surviving and he by all accounts likely to live a good few years yet, impatience finally got the better of them."

"But murder, Holmes? But they seemed so…"

"Insipid?" he finished for me, arching his brows quizzically. "If people were kind enough to make their crimes openly known, the police would find it far easier to apprehend criminals and I should find myself unemployed. Given enough motive, it is hard to say to what lengths any man might go. They were quite prepared to see you hang. What makes you think they would not have pressed a pillow over his face and hastened his end?"

I shuddered at the thought of it. "Did they? Did our visit cause them to murder the old man?"

"No. The post-mortem – which was conducted by a London surgeon, by the way – was conclusive on that point. The only wonder of it was that Mr Jack Frost survived so long. According to the official report, his lungs were particularly riven with disease. The only consolation was that the morphine with which the brothers were sedating him had spared him greater suffering. And how much better to die in a comfortable bed than in a ditch."

To hear him say such a thing took me aback. "You aren't condoning their actions?"

Holmes shook his head. "Not at all. It does, however, make one aware of the frailty of human existence, and how slim is the thread between life and death, between the advantaged and the disadvantaged."

He had taken to rearranging the articles on my desk while he spoke and, with his train of thought at an end, he again met my gaze. "You have deduced of course where I spent that night?"

I did have some small inkling. "Would I be very far from the truth if I said that you had disguised yourself as a tramp and mingled with their numbers at the Salvation Army mission? Soup, soap and salvation, I believe you said, which I understand sums up their approach to the less fortunate in society."

His grey eyes, dulled by inactivity and thoughtfulness, suddenly lit up with almost piercing brilliance. "Watson, you are most perspicacious this morning! Yes, that is indeed where I went. I disguised myself as a tramp the better to win the confidence of the others. I did partake of the soup, although I declined the soap on the grounds that other's needs were greater than mine. As for salvation, I suggested to the kindly Miss Abbott that she could do me the greatest service by saving with her testimony a dear friend of mine who had found himself embroiled in villainy of the worst kind."

"I am immensely grateful that she did. But how did you know that this fellow, Jack Frost, was the man in the coffin? As you said yourself, these men come and go."

"If not him, then it would have been another. In this case, I was almost certain that I identified my mark correctly. I had a name, remember."

I stared at him in puzzlement. "You did?"

"That brief conversation you had with him." He gazed absently at the ceiling. "'John, John, my name—'. I suggest that his next words would have been 'is John'." He glanced across and smiled at me. "Your error, Watson, was in assuming that he was addressing you. However, you suffer from that affliction that befalls every other fellow bearing your appellation – a common Christian name. Our man in the bed, knowing he was at the mercy of the Gradgrinds, saw an unfamiliar face and in vain tried to identify himself. John Frost, a Durham miner, fallen on hard times, kidnapped, drugged and wanting to die as his own man, not bearing the name of another."

"Miss Abbott said he was called Jack Frost. How did you—"

"Come, come," said he crisply. "With a surname like Frost, what else would his fellow wanderers have called him but Jack? Added to which, Jack is the familiar form of John. Surely you must have been called Jack in your time."

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Jack Watson." Holmes gave me a sideway glance and chuckled. "I rather think it suits you. It lends you a rather roguish air that sits well with your literary pretensions."

"But not with my chosen profession. I fear 'Jack' fails to inspire confidence."

"Then common John you must be."

"And you, uncommon Sherlock, in every sense of that word."

As receptive to flattery as ever, nonetheless he tempered his pleasure at this remark with a rueful shake of his head. "Kind of you to say so, my friend, but I fear my recent conduct has done me little credit. I have already had to endure a lecture from my brother on the subject. He blames me entirely for the events that took place and your unfortunate incarceration. As for entering his rooms unbidden, he has informed the redoubtable Mrs Morgan to repel any attempt on my part to gain entry by force in the future. He also mentioned that if I intended to pursue burglary in any seriousness, then I should exercise greater discernment in my selection of serviceable material."

He drew a long envelope from his pocket and passed it across the desk. Inside was a letter written in a flamboyant hand. Addressed to Mr Mycroft Holmes, and dated 1886, it ran as follows:

"_Now as I enter my fourth decade, I fear, should the Last Trump sound and I be called upon to account for my time in this mortal realm tomorrow, that I would have very little to show that has been good or of worth. The meanest member of my flock has lived a more meaningful existence than I, who have lived my adult life under the shadow of this tontine, forced upon me by my father, who was want to prize worldly pleasures more highly than the state of his immortal soul._

_It has come to bear upon me of late, despite the urgings of my nephews, who would condemn to a safe yet boring existence in the hope that I might yet survive you all, that I would rather live out my remaining years in the greater service of God than in the expectation of money. Should the Almighty will that such riches come to me, then it will be for the furtherance of His good works and not for my comfort. From this day hence, I have eschewed all material pleasures and have accepted an invitation to join a missionary expedition to Africa, where I intend to remain for the remainder of my natural life. _

_On the appointed date of each year, a wire shall be sent to the administrators of the tontine informing them of my continued well being. Should that wire fail to arrive, you may be certain that my old bones rest beneath a hotter sun than that of any English summer._

_I wish you, my fellow legatees, long life and good fortune, and pray only that the survivor remember your old friend with some small donation to a worthy cause._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Uriah Gradgrind."_

"Your brother knew," I said, laying the letter aside. "That is why he told you not to meddle."

Holmes nodded. "This letter went out to all the remaining members of the tontine three years ago. Last year, confirmation of Gradgrind's survival did not arrive at the administrator's office. They were on the verge of striking his name from the tontine when news came from the nephews that their uncle was back in England, much broken in health and under their care. My brother said he had his suspicions, but, being Mycroft, he would rather have been thought wrong than to rouse himself from the Diogenes Club to undertake some small investigation into the matter. He says that the deception would have been discovered eventually without any interference from him. I am not so sure."

I caught myself smiling. "You doubted him before."

"And was forced to eat my words," Holmes conceded ruefully. "Not that it matters now. With the Gradgrinds' admission that their uncle is dead, the tontine has come to an end and my brother finds himself with an embarrassment of riches. He intends to keep the original amount of Uncle Hobart's wager, feeling that that is all to which he is legitimately and in all good conscience entitled. As to the rest, he is spoilt for choice as to the distribution of his funds."

I gestured to the morning paper. "His selection so far has been admirable."

There came a knock on my door and a voice informing me that Mrs Ridley-Thomas had arrived for her appointment. Our time was rapidly drawing to an end.

"Well, now that you have explained it, Holmes, it all seems glaringly obvious."

"Everything is, Watson. I dare say that is my downfall. In truth, there is very little between me and the average teller of fortunes. We both observe and make our deductions accordingly, I about these mysteries that come our way, and the fortune teller about the expectations of young ladies, wishing for rich and handsome husbands."

I chuckled. "Oh, so you are an oracle now, are you? Perhaps you would care to tell me my fortune. What is it that I wish for?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "A holiday, which I predict you and your good lady wife will soon be enjoying."

"Unlikely, given my present circumstances, but do go on."

"I would, but in this case, I do have a certain advantage."

He drew another envelope from inside his coat and placed it on the desk. As I opened it, a card fell from a folded page, bearing the scrawled legend: _'With the compliments of Mr Mycroft Holmes'_.

I looked to Holmes for an explanation, but he indicated that I should read the enclosed letter. Beneath the bold heading, 'The Grand Hotel, Budleigh Salterton', there followed a brief message where the management extended their greetings to Dr and Mrs J.H. Watson and expressed their hope that they would be able to assist in the confirmation of our reservation to the finest room that the hotel could offer. It went on to say that all expenses had been paid in advance and all that was needed from us was the date on which we would be arriving.

"Holmes, what is this?" I asked. "I cannot accept charity, not from you or your brother."

"It isn't charity, Watson, it's a holiday. And it _is_ only a week in Devon."

"Even so—"

"Of course if you feel you cannot accept, then that is your prerogative. Mycroft was of the opinion that good fortune should be shared with one's friends. And he felt, in his wisdom, that a small recompense was needed for your discomfort as a direct result of his younger sibling's foolishness." A smile touched his features for the most fleeting of moments. "I agreed. I said that you would be insulted by money, but that a holiday would be most welcome. For some reason, I thought of Budleigh Salterton."

As uncomfortable as I was with the notion of accepting such a gift from his elder brother, I could not deny that the intent behind his generosity was well meant. I only hoped that Holmes had not been indelicate enough to divulge the reason for his suggestion, although knowing his brother and his feelings towards the place, he had probably deduced that much for himself.

"It is kind, extremely so," said I. "I only hope we shall be able to find the time to go."

"Remember the sage advice of Uriah Gradgrind," said Holmes, as he gathered up his things and rose to his feet, "that some things in life are greater in worth than money. Take your holiday and let the fellow next door take this noisome burden of patients from your shoulders." He extended his hand. "Well, I must depart if I am to catch my train. Do not leave it so long before next you call round to Baker Street. Your visits always seem to coincide with the most unusual of cases. Goodbye, my dear fellow, and do remember to give my regards to Budleigh Salterton."

**The End**

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.**_


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